The Witcher : The Emerald Dragon
by Spyro 423
Summary: Post PoA. Harry accidentally turns the time turner a tad too far, and finds himself transported into the past, into a more darker and brutal world... the World of the Witchers. Harry Potter X The Witcher
1. Chapter 0 - Prologue

The W|tcher }|{ The Emerald Dragon

OvervieW  
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The Witcher is a series of short stories and novels written by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski. He was born in 1948 in Poland. He studied economy and business, but the success of his fantasy cycle about the sorcerer Geralt de Rivia turned him into a bestselling writer. He is now one of Poland's most famous and successful authors.

For those of you who don't know much about the Witcher universe, I suggest you look it up in Wikipedia and The Witcher Wiki. The success of the books have transformed the witcher into a critically acclaimed game series: The Witcher, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, and The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt.

The games are developed by CDProjekt RED, whom I see fit to give an honorary mention for their outstanding work in recreating the witcher universe. Last I checked, there are a number of Witcher fanfiction works, and I think there is no problem in me writing one. If you haven't yet read 'The Last Wish', and 'The Blood Of Elves', please do. They are excellent, and will be worth your time.

Now, a brief description of the universe of the witchers. The witchers are essentially human beings that are usually orphans, or the homeless. These children are handpicked and 'bred', so to speak, into inhuman killing machines known as witchers. They are expert monster hunters, masters of weaponry, and are skilled magicians, though not as much as the mages in the land. The witchers' training methods are unknown, but it is widely believed that they are given various herbs to help them use their natural magic potential, which is considerably less than that of the mages.

The stories take place in 'The Continent'. I don't think I need to describe the geography. A map from the wiki could help you with that. The primary force in the continent is Nilfgaard, but the witcher stories usually take place in the opposing, divided region. We'll get to the politics as we advance in the story.

There are various Schools of Witchery, mainly the School of the Wolf, Viper, Cat, and Griffin. There might be a lot more, each specializing in it's own martial arts form and techniques. Once their training is complete. The Witchers set out on The Path, hunting monsters and generally being badass. A witcher is usually like a vampire, with pale skin, white hair, and yellow, slitted eyes. Their abilities will be described in the story. The witcher use magic in the form of Signs, and have a medallion, with the face of their respective school's animal carved into it. This medallion can recognize monsters, magic, and places of power.

There are a wide variety of races in the universe, the main ones being Humans, Elves, and Dwarves. The other races will be explained later. There might be a slight confusion on the Elf part, because the Elves in The Witcher, and the Elves in Harry Potter are completely different. I'll explain that in the later chapters of the Story.

Any extra information can be gained from the Wikis, but if doubt still lingers, please, don't hesitate to ask yours truly.

So that's it. I hope you enjoy the story, and if you have any queries or doubts, drop a review at the end of each chapter. And don't forget to rate the story(give it some good ratings, now).

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"So what does this thing do exactly?", Harry asked Hermione again. She might have been the smartest witch in school, but she was one lousy teacher. As Albert Einstein would say, "If I haven't understood it, you haven't explained it well enough."

Hermione sighed and started again. "This is a time turner, Harry. It turns back time to a time where the user wants to be. So if the user has done something wrong, then he can use it to correct his past mistakes. . . or take extra classes"

"And how is this going to help us?"

"We are going to use it to go back through time, rescue Sirius, and then help him escape on Buckbeak."

"Got it. But what did Dumbledore mean when he said, "You mustn't be seen.""

"Isn't that obvious? We cannot be seen by anyone."

"But why though? If we can talk to our past selves, wouldn't our job be much easier?"

"Harry. . . what would you do if you came face to face with your doppelganger?"

"I'd hear him out."

"No, you'd blast him."

"How do you know that?"

Hermione was getting slightly angry now. "We can't let ourselves be seen. It's as simple as that."

"But why?"

"Because Dumbledore says so!"

"What does that have to do with anything?

"He is a TEACHER."

"So?"

"TEACHERS ARE NEVER WRONG!", Hermione shouted, losing control.

Ron, who was still snoring soundly for someone who had a near death experience, stirred, but did not awaken. Harry on the other hand, gave up. She wouldn't listen to reason, no matter how much he tried. In her mind, she was always right. In her mind, teachers were equivalent to holy angels. Her mind, for all it's IQ and smarts, was narrow. It was one of the flaws of being Hermione Jean Granger.

"Fine.", Harry conceded. She wouldn't back down, and they were wasting time. . . which didn't seem so bad anymore since they had a time turner.

"So, How many turns are we supposed to do?"

"Three."

"Let me guess. . . because Dumbledore said so."

"Just turn the damn thing."

Harry grasped the time turner in his hand. So much power, in so tiny an object. What he could do with this thing. . . the possibilities were endless. He could make sure that no Dursley ever threatened younger him again. He could stop Riddle before he ever took control of Ginny. Quirrel would never even get into Hogwarts if Harry had his way. Hell, he could go back and convince his parents to never let Pettigrew be the secret keeper. He could prevent his parents' death!

Harry touched a ring on the turner. It was so delicate. . . so smooth. One wrong stroke and BAM! Bye Bye Hogwarts, Hello Dinosaurs! Come to think of it, why shouldn't he go back and fix everything? His life would become so much easier.

"Harry, I know what you're probably thinking,", Hermione said, slowly, and persuadingly, deducing Harry's train of thought. "But we cannot go that far back in time. I'm sorry."

"Why not?", asked Harry, anguished that she had crushed his dreams before he had even finished dreaming.

"Because I don't know how many turns it will take. If we make a mistake, we won't be able to return. The time turner can't go into the future, harry. Only into the past. if you somehow make a mistake, then we will be trapped in that timeline. . . until we die. . . or we're killed. . . OR we're written out by a paradox. Whichever comes first."

"Fine."

"Harry, I know it's difficult, but you have to understand the ramifications. . . If you were to prevent your own birth, you would erase this timeline completely, writing a new one that does not include you or your parents.", Hermione said, pleading with him, trying to convince him to stay his hand.

"But if I unravel that timeline, then... that means, that, I wouldn't exist, and that. . . I couldn't have used the turner, which means I couldn't have rewritten the timeline. But then, I would still be born, and. . . Oh, no, I lost myself." Harry had indeed lost himself. His mind was trying to work out the possibilites and the causes and the consequences of his time travel, something so complex and tangled, that his thirteen year old mind simply couldn't make head and tails of it.

Hermione, even though the smartest witch in third year at Hogwarsts, seemed to be suffering from a similar condition. "I know, Harry. It's called a time paradox. There's a whole bunch of them, and I'd rather not get into explaining every last rule. Okay? So let's just go, and get this over with."

"Yeah", Harry agreed. It was just too confusing to think about the bloody thing. He had seen Dudley watch a TV show called 'Doctor Who' focusing on time travel, and he was surprised why the poor boy's brain didn't explode from the information in the show.

Harry threw the necklace around both their heads, and Hermione had to come closer to compensate for the short length of the chain. Harry stood close to Hermione, closer than they had ever been before, trying to hold the time turner upright before turning the rings. 'Hmmmmm. . . What's that smell? Strawberries?. . . NO, you IDIOT, it's Peaches, duh. Does she always smell like this?', Harry thought. Had she smelled like this always? Why the hell hadn't he noticed that before?

This year was turnig out to be pretty weird, even for him. First he kept having nervous knots in his gut, whenever he was around Cho, and now he was actually smelling Hermione. Smelling a GIRL. What in heaven's name was wrong with him? And it wasn't just Hogwarts, either. He kept noticing girls around Privet Drive too. One of them was Juli Baker, a girl delivering eggs to the Dursley's. She was very pretty, and she seemed to be a nice girl. Not to mention she was one of the few children that actually didn't beat him up in kindergarten. Uncle Vernon always had him either throw out the eggs, or ask Harry to eat them, for fear of Salmonella, but Harry had never understood why. Those eggs seemed perfectly fresh, and only a complete asshole would throw them out llike that. Hmmmmm, well, that would explain Vernon's behaviour.

Hermione, meanwhile, had no such delusions. She was paying rapt attention to the time turner, steeling herself for when Harry twisted it to send them back in time. Harry wondered whether she would have had any friends, if He and Ron hadn't saved her from that troll. She was much too socially awkward. She wasn't even noticing when he was staring at her. No wonder the girl had no admirers.

Getting back to buisiness, Harry took a deep breath, and put his hand on the rings. He was just about to give it a slight tug when the doors were almost blasted open by a furious Severus Snape.

What he was about to say, Harry would never know, for the shock of such large a sound, and the sudden surprise caused him to accidentally flick the ring. The two Gryffindors watched in horror as the turner's rings started moving. . . and moving. . . and moving. Harry felt an intense tugging sensation in his navel, and he had barely enough time to say "Oh, Crap", before the duo was sucked into a vortex of energy, vanishing on the spot, leaving one flabberstagated Snape, one sleeping Ron,and one huge mess.

The racket caused by the turner had woken up Ronald Bilius Weasley, the whiniest personality in Gryffindor, who had awoken to see the hospital room in complete disarray, and Severus Snape. "Oh, Professor Snape. . . Would you mind passing me the medicine? I need to see Harry and Hermione."

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He was riding through the woods on his mount when he came upon the boy. He was in the vicinity, exploring the area , searching for signs of mosters or magic. There had been some rumors floating through the neighboring towns; of witches and sacrifices and magic. The woodcutters claimed to have seen a mysterious light in these woods, one that had caused the forest much unrest. This new development had intrigued the witcher; for a moment, he considered the possibilities of the Hunt's arrival.

The signs were there all right. A harsh light in the middle of the night, the forest in deep unsettlement, and a power that made even mosters reel back with fear.

But it could not be. The Hunt was an omen of war, and last he checked, the quiet little town of Eatedol had not even a scuffle break out in the last few days. The humans here were kind and timid, owing to the fact that it was true Elven territory. The community was small, mostly farmers, and fishers, and was one of the few towns that actually accepted their Elven heritage.

Eatedol would seem like an ordinary, albeit weird, name for a town, as much as the people were concerned. But to the Elves, it stood for much, much more. It literally meant summer valley, and was home to some Elven ruins that were apparently legendary.

The woods surrounding it were strong Scoia'tael territory, and the leader of the elves were more accomodating with the humans than Iorveth. As such, a dho'inne, like the witcher himself, were allowed to pass through the woods. Of course, he was certain the permission was so freely given because they were probably not expecting him to come back.

As such, it was almost noontime now. Yet the thick undergrowth of the trees provided more than enough shade and cover from the sun. This shade and the cool air could account for the boy's sleep, he thought. The boy was lying au naturale, no armor nor any form of apparel on him, save for a few leaves that covered his privates. He was malnourished, and this struck the idea of a human sacrifice from the witcher's mind. Blood sacrifices were healthy, fleshy creatures, and this boy was far too frail and wiry to meet the necessary criteria. The witcher got down from his mare, and on his knees, examined him further. HIs medallion started to tingle and hum, the eyes of the wolf's head going gold.

His lips were parted, and his pulse was slow. His chest heaved rhythmically with each breath. And there was a scar on his forehead. It looked strangely like lightning. The witcher checked the boy for signs of concussions, a fistfight, even a wild night with one of the whores from the brothel. After all, it wasn't unheard of for a young, hyperactive male to delve into the pleasures of adulthood while under the influence of wine and rum, and find himself woken up on the beach, the woods, or even on your neighbor's wife.

However, it looked like the boy was simply asleep... or unconscious. But the question here was how? No fights, no sacrifices, no sex. The only remaining explanations were monsters and magic.  
Obviously, no moster would carry a weak, thin boy to the middle of the forest and then leave him there. So that left... magic.

Either he was a mage, or a mage had brought him here. If the boy were truly a mage, then he would have been found by the Scoia'tael, or by the mosters. Whichever came first.

So, that meant a mage had been involved. But why teleport this particular boy? And why here? Why in Elven territory? Why was he so important? Or was this a coincidence? A spell gone wrong, perhaps? The witcher drew a long breath. It was no point trying to think up explanations. The boy could explain more than the witcher could deduce. And if he refused... well, the Axii Sign would make sure that he didn't.

He tied Roach to a nearby tree, and explored the clearing. 'There we are', he thought as he saw what he was searching for. 'Wolf's Aloe... Bayonella... and Claroste. This should wake him up. . . if I remember rightly.'

He pounded the herbs into a mixture and brought it close to the boy's nose, waving it in front of him. Nothing happened. 'Shit. I did make the rcorrect potion, didn't I?'

The boy's eyes flew open, and he began swallowing in air, like a fish out of water. The witcher noticed his eyes were green, usually an Elven trait.

"Calm yourself, boy."

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?", the boy screamed, trying to get back up. He was obviously still numb, so he winced as he felt his muscles, so stiffened that he could barely move.

"I mean you no harm... for now."

"Where. . . Where's Hermione? And. . . who are you? Where. . . am I? What is this. . . place? ", he asked between breaths. Obviously, he was still shaken.

"Hermione?", the witcher asked. Who was this Hermione?

The boy seemed more normal now, and he seemed to realize his mistake. "No one.", he said, looking the witcher straight in the eyes.

'Big mistake', thought the witcher. He formed the Sign of Axii, and his eyes glowed gold. "Who is Hermione?", asked the witcher again, this time more forceful, and clear.

"No One." replied the boy, just as persuasive as the witcher.

The witcher was taken aback. He was dead certain that the Sign would make him talk. . . But how had he resisted that? Did he have magic inside him?

"Fine.", he relented. If the Sign wouldn't work, there was no point in wasting his magic. He moved on to a more common question. "Who are you?"

The boy stayed silent.

"I won't ask again. Who ARE YOU?"

"Harry. . . Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter? Strange name you have."

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Harry Potter awoke to one of the strangest sights he had ever seen. Definitely not the strangest, but very much in the top ten. Harry's first thought was that he was in a nightmare. But after he found out that his muscles pained when he tried to move them, that theory was chucked out the window.

The last thing Harry remembered was being sucked in through the time vortex, along with Hermione. When he had woken up, or, rather, had BEEN woken up, Hermione was not with him. On an even more important note, he was fully commando style. If he could, he would have covered up his manly pride. But as it was, he couldn't.

Like any thirteen year old boy, Harry's mind was a little too late to come to it's senses. When he had calmed down enough, he found himself staring into the yellow eyes of a very pale man. He looked like an albino. He had vampirish pale skin, white hair, and a hard set jaw. He was draped in a cloak, but Harry thought he saw something that looked suspiciously like a sword hilt poke out from underneath.

"Hermione?", he asked, in a gravelly sort of voice.

Harry understood his mistake. He had spoken about Hermione, to an unknown, and presumably crazy, stranger. "No one.", he answered.

Harry thought he saw his eyes glow gold, and he felt a sudden ache in the back of his head. "Who is Hermione?", he asked again. Harry was tempted to tell him the truth. He looked like he could be trusted. After all, what could be the harm, eh? But Harry shook these thoughts from his head. "No one.", he answered, a little more forcefully.

Harry could see that this mystery man knew that he was lying. Yet he seemed to accept it. "Fine. Who are you?", he asked.

Harry stayed silent, wondering whether he should lie, or tell the truth. How would this man respond to being in contact with The-Boy-Who-Lived?

"I won't ask again. Who ARE YOU?".

Harry gave a slight, barely noticeable shudder. The tone in which he spoke assured Harry that he was not kidding. He would not be asking again. Harry was not curious at all to see whether he actualy had a sword. "Harry. . . Harry Potter.", he answered, waiting for the reaction of the yellow-eyed man.

"Harry Potter? Strange name you have." His response surprised Harry. Almost all the world knew of him. Anybody who knew of Voldemort knew of him. He was essentially a living legend where he came from. So what was different?

It took a little while, but Harry managed to put two and two together. He had accidentally overused the time turner. It had sucked them back into the past. But how much years into the past? Were they still in London? Did London even exist? Hell, did Europe even exist?

"Are you a sorcerer?", asked the man.

His question bought Harry back to Earth. Could he tell him that he had magic? He had only read about witch hunts this year. And he had no desire to be tied to a stake and burned to a crisp. "Magic?", Harry asked, trying to look innocent.

Unfortunately, the man was not buying it. "You don't know what magic is?"

"No."

The man took a long sigh, and Harry thought he was in the clear. "Lie again, and I may have to break a finger."

Well, apparently not. "What do you want from me? And who are you?, Harry asked.

"Nice try.", the man replied. 'Oh well, it was worth a try.', thought Harry. While his questions had been genuine, Harry was hoping to diatract the man from askinq questions about magic. "Fine, I am a wizard.", He said.

"Hmmm, that would explain my medallion.", the man said.

'Medallion?', Harry thought. He saw what the man meant. He had on an amulet that seemed to be carved, like a roaring wolf's head. The wolf looked very very fierce, and very dangerous. It's eyes seemed to be glowing. The detail on it was so lifelike that Harry felt a slight tingle up his spine.

"What do you mean?", asked Harry. As scary as the medallion was, it was difficult to see how this trinket could recognize Harry as a wizard.

"You don't know what I am?", the man asked, surprised, for some reason.

Harry noticed that he said 'What' rather than 'Who'. What did he mean? His wand was unfortunately nowhere in sight, and he felt so drained that he couldn't even summon a spark if he wanted to. He could lift his hands, but he suspected that this man would probably kill him before he moved. His gaze searched the area for a weapon while he answered, "No. I don't."

"Do you know what a witcher is?", he asked, in that same gravelly voice.

Harry stopped searching for a weapon, and looked at him. A witcher... he had remembered reading about witchers for his second year. Witchers were monster slayers. Orphans that were hand picked and trained in ways of swords and sorcery, to rid the world of the dark spawn that came forth from the COnjuction of Spheres. A witcher's training methods were unknown, but it was widely known that they were always infertile, due to the herbs that they were forced to eat during their training. Witchers were not true wizards, rather they were simple magicians, as the books described, able to summon only simple spells.

But they were monsters themselves. Accelerated healing, superhuman strength, lighning fast reflexes all coupled with their excellent weapon mastery made them a force to be reckoned with. Last the wizarding world knew, witchers had become... 'extinct', so to speak, with the last witcher being recorded in the time of Merlin himself. The various Schools of Witchery themselves had been lost. Harry had never liked History of Magic classes, but this was one topic that caught his eye. The witchers were badass, there was no other way to put it. For a time, harry imagined himself as one of these witchers, able to slay even the toughest of creatures. Looking back on the Basilisk battle, Harry had sometimes thought that he would make a very good witcher.

But seeing one upclose... it was... enlightening. He seemed to be human. Not the image he imagined from the descriptions in his textbook. Harry was torn. Should he tell him the truth, or should he lie? Instinct told him to lie, but he so dearly loved his fingers; he had no desire to have them broken. "Yes.", Harry replied, hoping for the best.

"What year is it?", the man asked. His eyes seemed to bore into Harry, as he thought for a way out of this question.

He was still mostly paralyzed, and magic was unfortunately not an option. Harry desperately thought for an answer. When were the witchers most active? What year could this be, if he had to guess.

'Damn, I have no clue!', Harry deperately thought. He couldn't very well say he was from the future, could he?. . . Could he?. The witcher's gaze seemed more intense, and Harry gave up. There was no way around it. He couldn't very well lie. But he couldn't very well say the truth, either. . . But of course! How could he be so thick? There was one response that he'd used countless times before, that was always an option.

"I don't know."

The witcher stared at Harry for a moment. Harry was pretty sure that he was going to lose a finger, and he was thankful that he was stiff enough to numb the pain.

"I believe you.", said the witcher.

His response surprised Harry very much. He was honestly expecting him to draw his sword, and couldn't really complain about the outcoming.

"Now,", started the witcher. Harry strained to listen. "You have two choices.".

'Oh Hell.', Harry thought. Those words were always a bitch to hear.

"One. You can choose to refuse my help. You can stay here, in the forest. Maybe when someone actually brave enough somehow manages to stumble upon this exact path, they may choose to help you. That is, if they can get past the monsters."

Harry gulped. He was brave, reckless even, but even he knew the difference between bravery and true stupidity.

"Two. You can come with me. You have magic in you, but not strong enough to be a mage. If you want, my school can teach you how to become a witcher, like me.".

Harry thought about that. The witcher was very persuasive. Either survive, or die. Plain and simple. But what did he mean when he said he wasn't strong enough to be a mage? He'd have to ask him about that.

"But.", the witcher continued. "On one condition. You tell me the truth. The WHOLE truth. Leave NOTHING out. If I even feel for a second that you're lying, the deal is off. Do you understand me?"

Ah, that complicated things a little. "How do Inknow I can trust you?", Harry asked.

"You don't."

Damn right he didn't.

"But you have no choice."

Well, he had a point.

Haryr thought about it. As much as he hated to admit it, the witcher was right. He had no choice. He had to find Hermione, and to find Hermione, he needed someone who actually knew the lay of the land. Someone who knew what year it was, and who was very resourceful and well updated. What better place other than a School Of Witchery?

"Fine.", he replied. He had no choice.

The witcher smiled. He reached into his robes and took out a small vial. He tossed it at Harry, who, being the seeker he was, caught it with his good right hand. It contained a light green, swirly fluid.

"What is this thing?", Haryr asked, slightly suspicious. Usually, green swirly liquid was poison.

"Drink it and find out.", said the witcher, moving to untie his horse.

Harry, taking a huge leap of faith, uncorked the bottle, and with a prayer to the heavens, drank the liquid in one gulp. It was almost like Butterbeer, only more warm and chocolatey. It soothed his insides, and gave him a warm fuzzy feeling. He raised his hand and wiped his lips. 'Wait, that's my left.'. Harry was now completely surprised. He tried to get up, and found that he could move. Hell, he was more energetic than he usually was, for that matter.

"What is this?", Harry asked again, now more curious than suspicious.

"A potion for numbness.", The witcher replied, while mounting his steed. "Now come on. We have a lot of distance to cover ahead of us."

"I'm not getting on the horse?", Harry asked.

"Your muscles are still stiff. You need a little excercise. . . And you are NOT getting on my horse. You can ride one... when you can buy one."

"Asshole.", muttered Harry, under his breath.

"Witchers have inhuman hearing as well, you know."

'Ah, hell.'. Harry thought.

"Oh, yes, you'll be needing this.", saying so, the witcher took off a cloak from the side of his saddle and tossed it to Harry.

He went red with embarassment. All this time, he had forgotten that he was still in the nude. With a quick "Thanks", Harry put on the robe.

"Where are we going?", Harry asked.

"Home.", the witcher replied. Harry had the fleeting impression that he saw his school the way Harry saw Hogwarts.

"What's your name?", Harry asked, feeling pretty dense for having omitted such an important detail.

"Geralt.", he replied. "Geralt... Of Rivia."

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To Be Continued

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	2. Chapter 1 : The School Of The Wolf

The }|{ w|tcher : The Emerald Dragon

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Chapter 1 - The School Of The Wolf

"Are we there yet?", asked Harry Potter, The-Boy-Through-Time, to Geralt Of Rivia, professional witcher, and total asshole.

"No.", he replied, eyes still dead set on the road ahead.

Harry, meanwhile, was feeling pretty screwed over. They had been walking- or HE had been walking -for almost over an hour, and this wolf school or wolfpack or whatever it was still nowhere in sight.

The witcher had been kind enough to give Harry a robe to cover himself up with, but had discounted the fact that he was barefoot and in the woods. For the past hour, Harry had been pricking his feet on stones and acorns and shit, literal shit, mind you, while Geralt was comfortably riding his horse, Roach.

"Can't you please give me a ride?", Harry asked. His feet were thankfully safe, but unthankfully covered in God-knows-what-crapped-that-out shit. He would have puked, but his systems were still reeling from the time travel episode. Geralt's potion had dampened the effect, but it felt like his intestines were on fire. This was either the potion's chemical reactions. . . or gas. Or God forbid, both.

"No.", Geralt replied, his expression same as before.

"Ahhhhh", Harry sighed in desperation. "Why not?!", he asked. Where on Earth was this damn school? If he had to walk another minute, let alone another hour, he'd probably faint from exhaustion.

"Your feet are covered in Nekker, Drowner, and Endrega shit; You are NOT riding Roach like that."

"You must be joking.", Harry said disbelievingly. He had to be kidding.

"There are three things I don't joke about. Breasts, Love, and my ride."

"I didn't think of you as the romantic type."

"I meant my love. The others'. . . not so much."

"Fine. But If you'd just let me ride when we started, my feet wouldn't be covered in shit, now would it?"

"No."

"I'd like a longer answer, please."

"No, I guess not."

"Oh come on. I'm thirteen years old. Where I come from, this is basically cruelty. You could go to jail for this."

"Then I guess it's good we're not there."

"Why do you want to torture me?"

"You want to be a witcher?"

"Yes."

"What kind of witcher would you make. . . if you can't quit whining for ten minutes?"

Harry started to respond, but Geralt cut him off. "We hunt monsters. There are creatures out there that can literally tear the armor off of you. Do you really want to die because you don't have the sack to walk barefoot in a forest?"

"I don't want to step in crap. I call that logic."

"I call that being a pussy."

Harry closed his mouth, and started walking ahead of Roach. He didn't care whether his feet bled, he just wanted to get away from this jerk. But after a minute of taking this resolution, curiosity got the better of hatred. That's the beauty of being a kid. It's way too difficult to hold grudges.

"What did you mean when you said I'm not strong enough to be mage?"

"I think that that sentence speaks for itself."

Harry walked silent for some time, thinking of a way to phrase his question.

"Where I come from. . . when I come from, I am a mage, like you said. So, I was wondering. . ."

Geralt cut him off. "I don't pretend to know, nor understand magic. When I knelt next to you, my medallion tingled. The intensity of the vibration tells me just how much of a thret a person can be."

Harry wondered about that. "So the vibrations you get from a mge was different from mine?"

Geralt nodded. "Yours was more along the lines of a witcher's magic potentioal. The vibrations from a true mage would have been much stronger. . . But I don't know why that is. So don't bother asking."

Harry, who had been getting ready to ask another question, closed his mouth. But if Geralt couldn't explain it, there would be others he could. the problem was finding out these 'others'. He could not do it on his own, no doubt. He could just ask Geralt, but Harry wasn't so sure that he would indulge. But he decided to take the chance.

"Do you know anyone who could help me?", he asked, hoping highly for an answer.

Geralt rode silently for a few moments, and Harry felt disappointed. 'So much for that', he thought.

"My mentor.", the sudden response from him surprised Harry.

"Who?", he inquired interestedly. This seemed like a viable option.

"My mentor. . . the oldest witcher in my School. . . Probably the strongest too. He's well versed in magic. Unlike us, he actually bothered to study the history of magic. It's even rumored that he's a few centuries old.", Geralt explained.

"Centuries?!", Harry asked, completely awestruck. He had often wondered how old Dumbledore actually was, but here was a man that was really centuries old! How would he look?! Old and withered? Or did witchers have a different appearance? For that matter, was Geralt's mentor human?

Geralt continued unafazed. "His name is Vesimir. He teaches everyone at the School of the Wolf."

"A century old man teaching sword fighting?", Harry asked. Knowledge was one thing, but practice was another, especially for a man who was this old.

Geralt chuckled. "You'll know when you meet him.", he said. Harry wondered what that meant.

After what seemed like forever, Geralt announced, "We're here.". He stopped Roach, and dismounted, catching the reins of the horse in one hand, the other adjusting his robes.

'Finally.', thought Harry. He didn't say it out loud, lest he wanted to insult all the witchers here.

The gates of the School were solid iron, with bars in between, like a cell door. They were very tall, almost thrice the height of harry. As they neared the gates, he saw that a wolf's head, much like the one on Geralt's medallion, adorned the center of the gate. Two creeping rose vines climbed along the bars, and the pillars on either side of the gate where covered with blooming roses. The walls were very long and made of stone, and to the right, Harry thought he saw a little of the sea.

'We're near a beach?', he thought. How had he missed that? Meanwhile, Geralt walked up and pressed his wolf medallion to the one on the gate. The eyes on the carved heads glowed blue, and Harry heard a click, as the gates slid open to reveal the walkway toward the School. 'Magic.', Harry thought, fondly remembering his first visit to Diagon Alley.

Geralt led Roach up the walkway, and Harry followed, finally thankful of having his feet on solid stone and not in piles of shit and leaves

There was a huge tower in the field in front. It seemed to be very, very old, and was made of dark obsidian stone rising ominously against the sky. The sound of waves could be heard, crashing against the rocky cliffside. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of activity in the castle, and Harry wondered whether this was the right place.

It certainly looked like a training school, anyway. As they got closer, Harry saw that there were training dummies out to the left, just in front of some crates containing all aorts of weapons. The more numerous ones were piercing weapons: Longswords, shortswords, daggers, Bastard swords, and some spears. There were also some. . . rakes?, and some clubs, probably for training. What surprised Harry was that there were almost no one in the field. Two witchers were sparring against each other, while one was trying to club a straw dummy to death. They looked up as they approached closer, and he could see that all of them had an almost similar appearance to Geralt, their difference being in their hair color.

Harry gulped. They eyed him unblinkingly, but then raised their hands in what was hopefully. . . a greeting. Harry saw one witcher grinning, and started to copy their hand gesture in a greeting of his own.

"Sofer.". Geralt's voice surprised Harry. The grinning witcher nodded and replied, "Nice to see you again. . .'Gwnybleidd.'".

Geralt laughed, and walked toward him. Harry realized that the greeting was probably meant for Geralt. 'That would have been embarassing.', he thought. Thankfully he hadn't greeted them back.

"Still the same cheeky bastard as always, I see.", Geralt laughed, putting an arm out to Sofer.

"Plough that.". Sofer punched Geralt's shoulder, not at all lightly.

"You hit like a girl. Anyone ever tell you that?", Geralt asked, still chuckling. Harry watched, amazed. 'Fascinating.', he thought. 'So he does know what 'friends' are.'

"More times than you'd expect.", Sofer replied. "How you been keeping, Geralt? Last I heard you were a little south, looking for. . . what was it?", he asked, scrunching up his eyes in remembrance.

The smile vanished from Geralt's face. "The Hunt.", he replied, emotionless.

Sofer stopped being cheery as well. The other two witchers exchanged knowing glances. Harry hated when people did that. What the fuck was so important that they didn't want to share it? He'd seen it many times in the eyes of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and sometimes during exams, on Hermione.

"You get any leads?", Harry was surprised at the stark differnece in the tone that Sofer used. He was dead serious right now, reminding Harry of when he first met Geralt.

"No.", Geralt replied, disappointment oozing from his sound.

"Well, they can't evade us forever. We'll get those bastards soon enough.", Sofer said, his tone now changng to it's original, playful version. "Who's this?", he asked, pointing his sword at Harry.

"Who? Him? Says his name is Harry."

"Harry?". Sofer asked. "Strange name."

"I know. I found hiim in the middle of the Belletyneate woods."

"That's where that sacrifice is rumored to have taken place.", one of the other witchers said.

"I know, but unfortunately, the mages escaped before I could get them.". Harry felt relief. For a second, he had thought that Geralt was going to tell them the truth. As much as he wanted help, he didn't really want to advertise the fact that he was from the future.

"What was he doing there?"

"Probably a trader family. They must have been trying to get into the town when they were attackced. If it weren't for the aura that the sacrifice exuded, he'd probably be dead too."

"Damn, kid's lucky. What do you think attacked them?"

"Drowners, probably. I couldn't find any other bodies, and we all know there's a river somewhere there."

"So why bring him here?"

"The Trial Of the Grasses."

Sofer whistled. "Really, Geralt? You want to make him a withcer?"

"Well it's not like our ranks are bursting with recruits. He's an orphan, plus he wants to be a witcher. So I figure, why not?"

"Hmm. Did you explain the trial already?"

"No. I was hoping to let Vesemir do that. . . come to think of it, what are you doing here? Last I heard, you were doing an exorcism up north."

"Yeah, that was one tough wraith, let me tell you. I had to Igni about twenty hosts, and burn downn a mansion. Anyway, I'm here to see Vesemir as well."

"Why don't you come with us?"

"Yeah. You probably need to hear this too. Take a break, boys."

- - - - - -}|{- - - - - -

Geralt pushed through the doors to the tower, with Harry and Sofer close behind. It was almsot evening, and the light falling through the windows gave the walls a lighter shade of orange hue, combined with the brown-black of the stone used to build the tower. The entire tower was carved from a single stone, the result of almost decades of work, as Vesemir put it. It was huge, and could house almost seventy five potential students. This may seem a meager number to most, but the children who actually became witchers were perhaps ten or fifteen at a time.

Each year, some children, orphans, homeless, refugees, would be selected and be subjected to the Trial Of The Grasses. Some would survive, others would either become abominations, or would die. This trial was never a pleasant experience, for both the subjects and the subjugaters. But it was necessary, and so it was done.

Those who survived where given special herbs that only Vesemir knew how to prepare, which would give them them the physical abilities of the witchers. Then it was aperiod of intense training, almost three years, while they were taught the Signs, fencing, alchemy, and hunting. Each witcher was a protege to another, and carried the fighting style of his or her mentor. Geralt himself, was a protege of Vesemir, and was extremely proud of it.

Once their training was complete, each witcher embarked on The Path, where they cleansed the world of monsters most foul. . . for a hefty sum, of course. Nothing was freely given, not even advice.

Behind him, Sofer introduced himself to Harry. Geralt silently focused on their conversation, ready to step in, should the boy spill any of his secrets. Thankfully, it appeared he was no stranger to lying, and Sofer, while still a little doubtful, was for the moment satisfied.

They climbed the steps to the topmost room of the tower: Vesemir's quarters. He always used to joke that the long climb was an excersise to his aged body. Thsi was the extent of humbleness from the man who was rumored to have taken down a dragon in single combat, and could even now best Geralt in hand to hand, of course, not without some effort.

Midway, Geralt stopped walking and looked out through a window by his side, out into the horizon lit by the orange sun. The ocean was slowly becoming gold-ish, and the sunrays had turned the sky crimson. He had forgotten this view, and silently berated himself for doing place was Geralt's one true home, after his parent's death. He always loved to climb onto the terrace and watch the sunrise and the sunset. He decided that he would quickly have his conversation with Vesemir and get ready to see the fast approaching sunset.

They climbed higher and higher, the staircase spiralling forward, until finally, they reached Vesemir's quarters. There were no title boards or any decorations on the door. Vesemir was a simple man, now that he was a lot more old; and we all know with age. . . comes wisdom.

"Wait here.", Geralt said to Harry. "I'll call you once we're done.". It was best that Sofer was not present to hear of Harry's predicament. Geralt understood that not everyone would take kindly to the fact that Harry was a time traveller. And while Sofer was one of his closest friends, one of his first lessons as a witcher was to never trust anyone, not even your friends. Anyone could stab you in the back, willingly, or unwillingly.

Harry nodded tiredly. Geralt did feel a little bad for having the boy walk all that distance, but it was important for his character. If he spoonfed him at every turn, when the time came to be independent, he would falter, and heavily at that. Plus, he was sure that no one in the future ever walked barefoot, and the kid's feet needed some serious work. Just then, his witcher hearing picked up on a slight rumble, and Harry clutched his stomach. 'Of course, he must be hungry.', thought Geralt, and cursed himself for not noticing. 'What a wonderful father I'd have made.'.  
he reached into his pockets and pulled out an apple. "Here.", saying so, he tossed it to Harry, who caught it with both hands. Harry looked at Geralt, a little exasperatedly.

"You had this the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"And you couldn't have given me this before?"

"You didn't say you were hungry."

Harry looked murderous. Sofer chuckled from up front. "Be happy he shared something, boy. When I was here this man was one miserly bastard."

"And Don't you forget it.", Geralt said. He had forgotten the last time he laughed. When was it? Two, Three, months ago? With all the goings on lately, having fun was the least worry in his list.

Harry sighed and Geralt heard him mutter "Unbelievable.", under his breath.

"I know.", said Sofer, catching Harry off guard.

"Super hearing.", Geralt pointed out as he walked into his mentor's room.

- - - - -}|{- - - - -

Vesemir's room was full of ancient scrolls and texts and other items of the like, the only thing showing signs of habitation being an unmade bed in the corner and four swords leaning on a shelf. Geralt had always wondered why Vesemir carried four swords. Usually, a witcher used only two: One steel for troublesome humans, and one silver for troublesome monsters. When he had asked Vesemir about this, he had told him that the two most frequently used by him were artifacts that he had discoveres on his travels, and the other two were his first swords, given to him by his teacher. Geralt didn't understand it then, and he didn't understand it now. Why burden yourself with a rusted blade when you have a fucking relic instead. Unfortunately, geralt had yet to find any artifacts, or relics. . . or even an enchanted blade. The swords he used now where the swords he had gotten first before, much as he wanted a relic.

"Ah, Geralt, Sofer, welcome back. To what do I owe the pleasure?". Vesemir's voice was old and wizened, yet it had that energy that most young ones now lacked. Geralt saw his smiling face and immediately felt one cross his own. Vesemir had always been something of a father figure to him, and he was determined to make him proud, by doing the one thing that was his dream: to kill the leader of the Hunt.

Vesemir's face was exactly like the last time he had seen him, almost half a year ago, and he still had the same spring in his step that he always did. As was customary, Geralt and Sofer brought their clenched fists to their medallions, and took a deep bow; a sign of respect.

"At ease, at ease.", joked Vesemir, and walked toward both of them. "Geralt. . . my boy! how have you been?", with this he pulled Geralt into a warm, fatherly embrace. Geralt returned the hug, but not without some embarassment. He was not used to public displays of affection.

"And Sofer! What a pleasant surprise, lad. Come, let us stand no more. Here.", he said, pointing to two some chairs by the window. Sofer graciously accepted and chose a seat close to the fireplace. Geralt knew that Vesemir preferred the seat with the view, and chose a chair that allowed him to face both Vesemir and Sofer. He was mildly pleased to see that his deduction was not wrong, when Vesemir sat down on the chair that presented the occupant with a beautiful view of the evening sky.

"So. . . tell me of your travels, Geralt. The last I heard, you were still 'hunting the Hunt', so to speak.", Vesemir chuckled at his own invention.

"Yes, master.", Geralt replied.

"Please, you are no longer a trainee. You may call me by name, lad."

"It's all right. I prefer this."

"All right then. Continue."

"It is as you said, master. I've been tracking the Hunt across the land."

"Any progress?"

Geralt grimaced. "Sadly, no. I've been hearing rumors, but most of them turn out to be false. In all truth, master, it truly is. . . a wild hunt."

"Hmm. That is. . . disappointing. Yet, it is also excellent. This could mean that the Hunt has lost some of it's power.", Vesemir replied. Geralt knew that his mentor always tried to find the silver lining in all his matters, no matter how impossible it may seem.

"Yes. But the growing tension with Nilfgaard may lead to war soon. The northern kingdoms are divided as it is, what with Demavend and Foltest at each other's throats most of the time. This essentially divides Temeria and Aedirn. The remaining rulers are eyeing this fight like. . . like dogs at a butchershop. Most of the mages don't give a shit- excuse my language -of these arguments. For them, these are mere scuffles, children fighting for a treat, if you will. They know that the emperor need mages, and they are not worried, not in the slightest. If a war breaks out between the kingdoms, Nilfgaard will leap at the opportunity. And if this happens. . . well, we can be certain that the Hunt will return more powerful than they ever were.", Geralt concluded, his voice grim.

The room was silent for a minute. "You're right.", said Sofer. "We can't afford another war. Last I heard, rumors whisper that the Hunt is already a hundred riders strong. The last thing we need is to provide them with more resources."

"Hmmm.", Vesemir looked troubled. "This is. . . troubling news indeed. However, we can't do anything about this. It's in the hands of the kings and their counselors now. I know a few mages that still work for them, I'll try to send them some information, but. . . ultimately, we have no control."

Another short silence filled the room, as the three witchers thought about the ramifications of another war on the land. It wouldn't just be the Hunt. Monster attacks were already frequent enough as it was. Another war would devastate the Continent and it's inhabitants.

"But let us remove these thought from our minds.", Vesemir said, trying to turn the conversation to a lighter note. "Sofer, lad, I sense you have something to share as well?"

"Ah, yes, master, but. . .", Sofer paused for a moment, but continued. "I'm afraid it's even more worse news than what Geralt has brought us."

"EVEN worse? Ahhh. . . I'm getting too old for this shit. Continue.", Vesemir said, waving his hand as a signal.

"I've just been down South, trying to scope out the situation in Nilfgaard, when. . . when I came across the school of the Mockingjay."

"The Mockingjays? A rather odd animal to choose a symbol, but the women there cannot be rivaled.", Vesemir said, and Geralt had to stifle a laugh. He had forgotten that when his mentor was young, he and the headmistress of the School of the Mockingjay had, shall we say, knocked boots.

Sofer however, looked sombre, an unlikely trait. "The school was. . .razed. I'm sorry, There's no other word to use."

Vesemir sat up straight. "What?", he asked, disbelieving of the news.

"That was my reaction when I heard it myself."

"Is Elaine ok?"

"Yes. Thankfully, she was away on her Path when it happened."

"What monster would do such a thing?", Geralt asked. Obviously it couldn't just be a group of trolls. Destroying a School full of witchers. . . almost impossible unless a dragon ro two were involved. But news like that would have spread like wild fire.

"Not what, Geralt. Who?", replied Sofer, expression grim. He continued with a sigh, "It appears that. . . that the villagers of the nearby towns banded together to destroy the School. Most of the witchers were away on the Path, so it was. . . fairly easy for them. I think about three witchers and almost seventeen students were killed. No, murdered, would be a more appropriate term."

Vesemir and Geralt sat in silence, each contemplating the news. The witchers were already dying out, and to lose an entire School was. . . an unmitigated disaster. One which would strike a heavy blow to both witchery, and the witchers themselves

"I hate being the bearer of such news, master. But it appears that. . . well, as much as I hate to say it, it appears that witchery is a dying profession. People just don't want us anymore. They need us but. . . it looks they're the only ones who don't see that. More and more citizens are losing the Sight. They start to make up rational explanations for everything. They see nekkers as a new species of dogs, drowners as bears, trolls as mounds of earth. Every day, more and more children are born not touched by magic. And this is not the only news. More and more witcher schools are closing down or being destroyed. The school of the Mockingjay, of the Bull, and of the Panther being but a few of these names. Down South, witchery is quickly becoming a banned profession, and there are kill on sight orders out for witchers. In fact, the only major schools up north still satnding are those of the Viper and the Gryffon."

Vesemir looked deeply troubled, and Geralt could not believe his ears. Were the people so dense that they felt they needed to kill their protectors? "What of the situation North?", asked vesemir.

"Not as bad as in the South.", Sofer replied. "Perhaps it might be because of the more frequent monster attacks, and a less effective militia than Nilfgaard, but the people, though grudgingly, accept the fact that witchers are needed for their survival. But for how long we can maintain that position. . . I am not certain. If Nilfgaard does manage to take the North, all of witchery could be lost."

"There is nothing we can do, I'm afraid.", Vesemir said, perhaps more to himself than to Geralt and Sofer.

"Actually, master. . . I know what I'm suggesting may be wrong, but we need more witchers. Perhaps you could look into new herbs or potions that could be used in the Trial? If you could get rid of thsi infertility problem, perhaps the witchers may become numerous again?"

Vesemir laughed. "And increase the number of bastards in town, right, Sofer?".

Sofer flushed deep red. "I don't know what you mean, master."

"Oh, come now, lad. I was your age once too, you know. All that stamina and strength and you feel the need to expend all of it. The madame of the brothel is an informant of mine, Sofer. How many women?"

"Two, sir.", Sofer replied, still embarassed.

"Multiple times, Sofer? I didn't think you had it in you, to be honest.", Geralt laughed at Sofer's expression. "But you still haven't beat the record, I'm sorry to say."

"My record, you mean.", Vesemir said, smiling at his ex-students. "If you two were capable of producing seed, we'd have a number of Geralts and Sofers running around."

The three witchers smiled, now that the conversation was turning more lighter. "It is something I'm looking into, I'll tell you. But it is almost impossible unless I can find someone that can become a witcher without going through the mutations."

"Of course, master.", Sofer replied, getting up to leave. "May I leave? I know you and Geralt may have other matters to talk about."

"You may, lad.", Vesemir replied.

Sofer bowed agin to Vesemir, gave another punch to Geralt, and left the room.

"What do you make of this, Geralt?", Vesemir asked his protege.

"I think that Sofer has a few points, master. We need to find a way to increase the number of witchers, otherwise, I'm afraid that what happened to the Mockingjays may repeat for us Wolves."

"I believe so as well. Tell me, is there another reason for your visit? I recall you were more of a traveller type. In fact, it's been almost, how much?"

"Half a year."

"Yes, half a year since you've returned. There must be something troubling you, lad. Out with it now."

Geralt paused for a moment. He knew he had to tell Vesemir the truth, but he was unsure how to begin, and unsure how he would take it. "Master, I have a boy with me."

"I know. He is waiting outside, cursing you."

"Oh. Well, I don't know any other way to say this, but. . . he's from the future."

Vesemir stared at geralt quizzically. "Come again, lad?"

"He's from the future, master. A time traveller."

"Time travel? I thought it was impossible."

"As did I. But he is the living proof of it."

"Perhaps it's simply a hangover. You know how wild boys can get these days."

"I thought so too. But my medallion recognized his magic."

"Magic? So he's a mage?"

"No. The intensity of the vibration wasn't strong enough."

"So. . . Ah, a half-blood?"

"Perhaps. I don't know the details, to be true. But he is powerful."

"Why bring him here?"

"I thought he could be a witcher."

"Hmm. Did you warn him of the consequences, Geralt? I don't want to force him in any way."

"He knows of the witchers, so I assume yes."

"If he truly is a boy from the future, then perhaps he may not survive. After all, we don't know what mutations those in the future have suffered, and the herbs have never been used on a half blood. You know this."

"Yes, master. Mages have too much magic potential and humans have almost none. But a half blood may be the right mix. I didn't think about this until Sofer, but. . . perhaps this boy could be the next step?"

Vesemir contemplated Geralt's words carefully. "Perhaps", he replied, "I suppose if he survived, maybe we might be able to solve our. . . infertility problems. Hmmm. Can you send him in, Geralt? I wish to speak with him."

"Of course, master."

- - - - -}|{ - - - - -

Harry had just finished off his apple and was sitting down on the floor, contemplating his predicament. Hermione was missing -harry wasn't ready to count her dead just yet- He had no knowledge about anything in this time, his magic was apparently lower, his wand was missing, and Geralt so far had been no help.

It was then that Sofer came out of the room. "Where's Geralt?", Harry asked.

"He's talking with Vesemir. Tell me, Harry, how old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"And what was your father's name?"

"James Potter."

"And your mother's?"

"Lily Potter."

"Harry, James and Lily. I have to say, you and your father's names sound very strange."

"I'm sure you've heard stranger."

Sofer smiled "Touche.". He leaned closer to Harry, but after Snape, Malfoy Sr, and Tom Riddle, Harry knew well enough that backing down would just make him seem weak. He held his gaze, but it was still innocent. Even he knew that making an enemy so soon would only hiinder his mission.

"You know,", Sofer began, pointing a gloved finger at Harry. "I don't believe Geralt's story about you one bit. A trade family in the middle of the forest attacked by drowners?"

"What's so suspicious about that?", Harry asked. It seemed a perfectly viable story to him.

"Drowners don't hunt in groups, and they'd be more than a little nervous taking on three humans at the same time."

"I understand you not trusting me, but Geralt as well?"

"With magic, anyone can be bewitched these days. Be it a commoner, a king, or The White Wolf himself."

'White Wolf?', Harry thought. Who was the white wolf? "I don't know how to use magic.", Harry replied. He didn't like where this conversation was going an dhe had better end this as soon as possible.

"My medallion thinks otherwise. Listen, 'Harry', I don't know if you have an endgame or something, ok? Why you want to be a witcher, I don't know. But this is my home, and if you do anything to harm it, I don't care if I have to fight through both Vesemir and Geralt, I will kill you, even at the cost of my life."

"Gotcha.", Harry replied. He wasn't trying to be cocky. He was maybe a little scared to manage something longer.

Sofer gave one final warning glance to Harry before leaving. About two minutes after this, Geralt came out, looking as he always did. Harry got up from the floor, as Geralt started to speak.

"Vesemir wants to see you.". Harry nodded his head in the affirmative. "I've given him an outline of your. . . situation. If you have any queries, you can clear it with him. Be respectful, Harry. Don't explode or anything. Keep your calm."

"Got it. Be respectful, Be calm.", Harry replied.

"I'll see you around, Potter.", Geralt nodded and walked off further up the stairs. Harry watched him leave and stared at the door to Vesemir's room for a while. Finally, with a deep breath, he entered his den.

The first thing he noticed were the books. The entire place was covered in scrolls and herbs. This was a treasure trove of knowledge. Knowing Hermione, this sight might be able to give her an orgasm. Harry noticed that there were four swords leaning against a shelf. They seemed very sharp, which meant they were very very dangerous. One of the blades had a slight glow about it, and another had a blade that was. . . robin's egg blue, Harry remembered. 'Enchanted blades?', Harry wondered. "Fang.". Harry whirled around, surprised by the voice. A very old man was sitting in a chair by the window, the falling light casting shadows on his face. His face was wrinkled almost everywhere, and his body looked like he was seventy years old. A century old man, but physically almost forty or thirty years younger. How would he have been in his prime, was the question that flew threw Harry's mind.

"The blade you're looking at. It's name literally means 'fang' in Elvish. It is a relic I found in my travels, forged from the scales of a blue water dragon.", the man replied, his eyes never leaving Harry's face.

"Vesemir?", Harry asked, and the man nodded in affirmation. He extended his arm toward the man, who grasped it firmly. Harry was completely taken aback by the strength in those arms. It felt like it could crush Harry's hand without much effort.

"So. . . you are Harry Potter.", studyting Harry closely. "The boy through time."

Harry didn't know how to respond to that, so he held his tongue. A small smile broke through Vesemir's weathered face.

"Sit down, lad.", he offered, and Harry graciously accepted.

"Geralt tells me he found you in the forest. Could you tell me how this came to be?"

Harry didn't tell him everything, just that a freak accident in the future had propelled him into the past, though why at that exact spot, he didn't know. He told him that he was a wizard in training, only three years into his studies. Harry felt that the time turner was too vital an information to let out at the moment.

Vesemir listened with rapt attention, occasionally nodding his head and motioning for harry to continue. Harry noticed that he reminded him him a lot of Dumbledore, with the old appearance, the twinkle that never left his eyes, and the way in which he listened to Harry.

"This Hermione,", Vesemir began, when harry had stopped, "She was not with you when you awoke?"

"No, she was missing.", Harry replied.

"Hmm. And you say you were looted?"

"Yes."

"I think that. . . your friend was probably kidnapped. After all, a girl is much more valuable to thieves than a boy."

'No.', Harry thought. He couldn't possibly be suggesting what Harry thought he was suggesting.

"Was she a mage too?", Vesemir asked.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well, we best believe she's smart enough to escape, or at least lie when needed. Belletyneate is strong Elven territiry, and it's more than likely that the looters were ambushed by them. Hermione. . . it sounds a little Elvish. If she's wise enough to come up with a convincing backstory, then perhaps the Elves might take her in. Assuming the leader lets her live, the Elves may teach her magic, or give her up to the druids or the Circle."

"She's the most intelligent witch in my year. I'm sure she will.", Harry said confidently. He was sure that Hermione would be able to weave a convincing story. After all, she truly was the smartest witch in their year.

Vesemir simply smiled. "I do not mean to dampen your hopes, Harry, but there is a very huge difference between intelligence, and wisdom. I can promise you this, however. Finding her will be extremely difficult, nigh impossible."

"It's not like I have anything better to do.", Harry replied. He would not abandon her, no matter what the odds were.

"I admire your determination, lad. Now, to you being a witcher."

"Ah, yes. Um, is there any way that I might not be, you know, infertile?", Harry asked, a little frightened.

Vesemir laughed. "No, my boy, Of course not. . . At least, I think not.", he added as an afterthought. "Usually, subjects- for lack of a better word -turn infertile when they are mutated to give them magic."

"Mutated?", Harry wondered alound. It was still a road-less-travelled sort of topic in his time. The past couldn't possibly know of this. They could not possibly be that advanced.

"Yes. Witchers and Mages widely accept that the body might be divided into smaller, more compact pieces. The organs control the body's functions, but something must control them as well. A cornerstone for life, if you will. It's taken centuries, but druids have managed to learn that certain herbs, when combined in the right ratio and order, can transform these blocks, creating what we call. . . mutations. We also believe that one of these stones are what code for magic in humans, since even children of normal humans may become mages. Usually, when we present these mutagens to the subjects, their body responds by mutating their seed. They may still climax, but their seed may never produce children. . . Is this not an advanced topic in your time?"

"Huh?", Harry managed. He was listening to all this open mouthed. It was difficult to believe that these people knew more about the human body than the future, with all it's technology, ever did. "Oh. Oh yeah. Uh, We call them. . . cells. And, uh, it's a. . . it's a really big topic where I come from. Extensive research is put into it, you know?"

"Of course. Now, since you already have magic, I expect we do not need to mutate you. However, we will need to provide you the other mutagens, the ones for physical development. Of course, I have never seen it done without the magic mutations, so I cannot foresee the effects. Tell me, do you still wish to become a witcher?"

"Do I have another choice?"

"At your age and build, maybe you could work as a slave boy."

There really was no choice to consider. "I accept.", said Harry.

Vesemir nodded. "I must begin preparations with the druids. Meanwhile, feel free to choose any dorm for yourself. I believe you can find him yourself? I will call you when the time is right."

"Thank you. . . Lord Vesemir.", Harry replied

Vesemir gave a slight chuckle. "Please, lad, I am no lord. If you desire, you can call me by name. Titles mean nothing to me."

"May I call you sir?", Harry replied. "It is what we call respected people where I come from."

"I am no Knight, but if that is what you prefer. . ."

"It is, sir. May I leave?"

- - - - -}|{- - - - -

Harry walked up to the terrace. He really wanted to see the sunset, something in the world that was still familiar to him. He was surprised to find Geralt there, leaning on the railing, looking out at the setting sun, now starting to submerge.

Harry decided to leave, but Geralt called out without turning. "You don't need to leave, boy. I don't bite."

He had forgotten the witchers' heightened hearing. . . again.

Harry walked over to the railing and like Geralt, leaned over it.

"So what's the decision?", Geralt asked.

"I'm becoming a witcher.", Harry replied.

"Are you sure you want this? It's not exactly an easy life, Harry."

"I know."

There was still some doubts in Harry's mind that he wanted to ask Geralt.

"Who's the White Wolf?"

Geralt smiled. "Me.", he replied.

"Oh. I thought that. . ."

"It'd be some legendary warrior?"

"Well. . ."

"I'm called the White Wolf because unlike other witchers, I'm the only one who's hair turned white from the experiments and also. . . I'm from the school of the Wolf. As for the legendary aspect. . . well, I have not told you EVERY thing about me, Harry."

'Wow.', thought Harry. He had thought that Geralt was powerful, but he never expected that he'd have his own title. But there was still one thing remaining in Harry's mind.

"What's this 'Hunt' I've been hearing about?"

Suddenly, Geralt looked all hardened and angry. "The Wild Hunt, Harry. A group of specters that roam the Continent, looking for new souls to add to their ranks as their. . . riders. Nobody knows who they are or what they are. The only thing we know about them is that they are an omen of war, and misfortune. Death, and destruction. We have little to no knowledge about them, but they. . . are what every witcher fears. What every witcher hates. What every witcher yearns a chance to strike at. Vesemir was the only one to see the King of the Hunt. But I will make him proud. I will bring him this, this 'King's' head. I will end the Wild Hunt."

Harry took all that in for a moment. It really looked like Geralt had some sort of personal vendetta against this 'Wild Hunt'.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own private thoughts. The sun was now dropping into the ocean, and it's rays had turned the sky saffron. A few birds squaked as they flew overhead. The constant see breeze was refreshing, and comforting. Harry and Geralt looked over the horizon, at the setting sun, at the vast expanse of sea laid out in front of them.

'I will return, Yennefer.'

'I will find you, Hermione.'

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To Be Continued

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	3. Chapter 2 : Decisions

I open my eyes.

I am looking into another's. They are pure almond. They are closer than ever.

I blink once. I am in a desert. Rows of columns stick out from the ground.

I feel hot wind slap my face. What is this? A sandstorm?

I need shelter. I am walking toward a pair of columns.

I can not run. I have no stamina.

Why have I no energy? Why am I so tired?.

I bring up a hand to wipe sweat off my brow.

What is this? Gloves? Leather? Or Steel?.

Difficultly, I take another step.

The world blurs in front of me.

What? Have I had a concussion?

I feel my head. It feels warm, gooey.

What?

Why. . .

Why am I. . .

Why am I bleeding?

The w|tcher }|{ The Emerald Dragon - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Chapter 2 - Decisions - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry woke up, covered in sweat, panting heavily. He tried to catch his breath, and wiped a hand across his forehead. He felt feverish with warmth, and the sweating would not stop. The dream had been so real, so. . . true. It felt like he was really bleeding, and he was dizzy beyond belief. He brushed his hand through his hair, toward the back of his head, trying to find a source of blood or an injury. His hair was matted together with sweat, and his hand found nothing other than wetness. He was beginning to hyperventilate now, and consciously, he focused himself to draw in deeper breaths, forcing his systems to calm down. It took a while, but eventually, harry calmed himself down enough to think. He rested his head on his hand, supporting the hand on his thigh, rearranging himself, sitting cross legged.

'Where am I?', he thought. 'That's right, I'm at the School of the Wolf.'.

Harry took in another deep breath. It had been nearly a week since Geralt had brought him to the school, and while Geralt hadn't really left the school, he was more or less never actually IN it. He preferred the outside, travelling to nearby villages and hamlets to search for new contracts or monsters to hunt.  
Vesemir had informed Harry that the ingredients for the Trial Of The Grasses were collected, and the preparations were underway. he had asked that Harry make himself acquainted with the other recruits and students of the School while he waited, and Harry had tried to do just that.

He had tried approaching the other 'volunteers', those who were his own age, anyway, but he had made no giant leaps in that regard. He had a few friends, none very good, but Harry could not really blame them for not wanting to 'socialize'. Most of these children had had a very dark childhood. All were orphans, victims of fate's whims, with nothing to lose and no one to love. Some had had had their village destroyed, burned down by bandits or attacked by monsters. Others had their family ripped apart by men and by beasts. It was fairly natural that they were a little. . . reclusive. To a certain extent, Harry could understand their emotions and feelings. He himself had no parents, but he felt that he was much, much luckier than some of these survivors. At least he had never known his parents. He had never experienced a mother's warmth, never felt a sister's affection, never had a brother to quarrel with, never had a father to look up to.

But these children, they knew of all these feelings. They had experienced it. They had grown up with it. And they had been plucked from it by Chance. One fateful day, all that they held dear, all that they took granted, suddenly ceased to exist.

"Hey, Harry.", Toril called out from the doorway.

Harry looked up at the skinny boy, releasing his mind from the thoughts he had. Toril was frail and pale, and he had a malnourished, underfed look about him. Much like Harry, he was an orphan who knew nothing of his parents, and much like Harry, was skinny, with unkempt dark hair that ran to his shoulders. His face was narrow and much like a weasel's.

"What is it, Toril?", Harry asked.

"What do you mean? It's already morning. Don't you need any food?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah, I'll just be down."

"No, that's fine. I can wait."

Harry smiled, and got up from his bed, stretching as he did so. He was wearing a ragged white shirt with dirt colored trousers. He took another deep breath, and took a look out the window by his bed, into the surrounding woods.

"Let's go."

They ate their food in silence, Harry, Toril, Ridan, Moire, and Lana. Together, they made a fairly weird group. Ridan, with his dark red hair, freckles splashed across his face, reminded harry of Ron, his best friend at Hogwarts. Much like Ron, Ridan was rather simple and tactless. But he was warm enough, accepting Harry readily, and introducing him to the others.

Lana was the same age as Harry, and had short, brown hair, with a squeaky voice and a rather shy demeanor. She reminded Harry of Ron's sister, Ginny. She always tagged behind them wherever they went, or to put another way, she tagged behind Ridan wherever he went. Harry thought that she was rather plain, but he supposed that for a boy like Ridan, she was fairly good enough.

And then came Moire. She was a bit of an enigma to everyone. She was Lana's older sister, and was pretty much the only reason she even bothered to sit with them. She was more of the lone wolf type, and like a wolf, was elegant and ethereal. Harry had never thought a girl beautiful, not even Cho. Hermione was pretty, but the thing that he liked most about Hermione was her personality. Cho was pretty, but this girl just blew her out of the water. She was maybe three years older than Harry, and it may have been because of puberty, but she gave off an allure that Harry found very hard to resist. She was tall and slim, with long dark brown hair, large brown eyes, fair skin, and curves that made her look like a supermodel. But no boy at School ever approached her. There were some rumors floating around that she had castrated a boy once, and with her teeth, no less. Thad turned Harry off, but just a little.

As they almost finished eating, another boy ran up to them. "Vesemir wants to see all the recruits in the main hall. Hurry up."

Harry exchanged uneasy glances with all of his friends- except Moire - and quickly started to devour his food.

As Harry stood in the great hall, he looked around the other recruits. Most of them were grim and sombre, others were fidgety and uneasy, and some- true weirdos - were excited and hyper.

Toril stood off to Harry's left, nervous and wary, twiddling his thumbs and studying everything. After getting to know him better, Harry had learned that Toril had been an orphan in a big city, and like most big city orphans, was a thief. He had learned how to steal at a young age, and was very good at sleight of hand tricks. Looking at him now, Harry could see how he must have appeared as a thief. He was then kidnapped by bandits, for his incredibly deft hands and skill at lockpicking. Unfortunately, they had foolishly decided to camp out in the woods, and as fate would have it, they were unwitty enought to build a fire next to an Endrega hive. Toril had run off in the middle of the night, as fast as his legs would carry him, away from the terrified cries of the rogues as they were torn apart by stingers and claws. He ran high and low, screaming at the top of his lungs for help, drawing the attention of half the forest. He was rescued from decapitation by a witcher who offered him a choice, right then and there. With nothing to lose, and tired of having to sneak around like a cockroach, he accepted.

Ridan stood off to Harry's right, and again, Harry was reminded of Ron. Ridan was more excited than the others, looking back and forth between the recruits. Ridan was a simple peasant, but he had always wanted to be so much more. He was an orphan as well, but unlike most of them, he actually had a steady pay as a farmhand. But he wanted to make some contributions in the world, and immediately wanted to join the militia. He was rejected promptly, and perhaps it may have been due to that depression, he decided to go on a journey to become a witcher. He had met with one witcher during a trip to the city, and decided to travel with him to learn the art of witchery, leaving behind his life as a farmer.

Toward the back, it looked as if Lana and Moire was arguing about something. Lana seemed to be pleading with her sister, and Harry watched expressions flip across her face. Moire appeared unafazed by whatever Lana was saying. She crossed her hands over her chest, and used one hand to twirl a strand of hair. Quickly, her eyes darted toward Harry, and he swiftly looked away, a tiny bit nervous. Moire and Lana had a lesser known backstory.

According to Lana, she and her sister had a fairly good life with her mother, step-father, and step-sister. They used to live in a nearby village, and with a steady income and a happy life, they had nothing to complain about. One day, she was woken up by Moire in the middle of a fire in the village, and they barely escaped with their lives. They then became nomads, shifting from village to village, until they finally chanced upon the School. Lana had confessed that she never really wanted to be a witcher, but had no choice. She wanted to live as a normal woman would. Grow up to marry a wealthy handsome farmer, have a child or two, and live her life blissfully in the countryside, her husband by her side, and her grandkids playing on the horizon.  
Moire was almost opposite. She never spoke of her life outside the school, if she spoke at all. But that just added to her allure, as far as any boy, or at least, Harry, was concerned.

As Harry was thinking of his friends lives, Vesemir arrived. The hall suddenly fell silent, and all the recruits looked up at Vesemir. He smiled at them, and Harry saw his eyes judge each and every one of them, already making guesses as to who would survive, and who would die.

"Here we are.", Vesemir began. "All of you. Potential witchers. Ready to learn at the School of The Wolf. All of you have your own reasons, why you want to be a witcher. All of you have your own Paths to walk. But let me be as clear as day when I tell you, these first few steps along the Path, will not be easy. At all. Some of you may die. Some of you may go mad. Others may turn into the very things we, as witchers, are sworn to hunt."

Vesemir looked at the faces of all of the recruits. Those that were filled with wariness, those that were filled with terror, and those that showed no outward emotion.

"Monsters.", Vesemir continued. "Now, I know all of you came into this castle, to learn the art of witchery. But choose wisely. Two or three years later, you must not look back at this day, filled with regret at the decisions you made. Think wisely. Know that that the way you choose is the way you must travel, and know that some paths are easier than others."

Kids started fidgeting all around as most of them second guessed their decisions and choices. Harry himself found his mind thinking of alternante ways to walk. Was it really important that he be a witcher to find Hermione? Should he have to throw away an entire life, an entire future just for finding a friend? He had never had any family to begin with, he had no parents, and the relatives he had were as good as dead.

By becoming a witcher, was he sacrificing an entire lifetime of happiness? Was he truly giving up his chance for a beautiful life in the world? He would never have a son. He would never experience the sensation of welcoming a new life into this world. He would never feel pride at watching him grow up. He would never get to know what it felt like to sit on the front porch of a cozy little house on the suburbs, watching as his grandchildren ran circles around the house, or decided to listen to his 'tall tales.'

Was saving Hermione really worth sacrificing all that? Hermione. . . she was one of the first real friends that he had. After saving her from a troll in his first year at Hogwarts, they had become the best of friends, forming the Golden Trio of Gryffindor with Ron. They had been through so much together. If it were not for her, they would never have got past the Devil's Snare to snatch the Philosopher's stone from Quirrel. If it were not for her, they would never have figured out that the monster of Slytherin was a basilisk.

'And if it weren't for her, I wouldn't be in this mess.', Harry thought. Immediately, he regretted ever having formed that thought. It was never Hermione's decision to propel them through time. In fact, if anything, it was his fault. He was holding the time turner when Snape broke in. If he had been more careful with the blasted thing. . .  
'then we would still be at school.', he thought. 'We would have rescued Sirius. We would have saved Lupin. We would have been in the Great hall right now, laughing at how close we had come to death.'. As he thought, Harry began to realize the true implications of his decision.

If he decided to not be a witcher, he would have to spend his days in this time, maybe working as a street magician, nothing more than a Squib. He would perhaps marry a girl he never truly loved, and he would have to grow old, filled with regret at not choosing differently. Everyday, he would have to get up, look himself in the eye, and know that he had a chance to redeem his mistakes, but instead, chose the easy way out. Not to mention that He would be probably condemning hermione, wherever she was.

By choosing the easy way out, he would be condemning hermione to whatever fate she was in the present. What if she was being held captive, right now, believing that he would come to her rescue? She would never have the life that she dreamed of, either. Was he that cruel, cruel enough to take that away from her? It was his fault that they had this dilemma to face. If there was even the slightest possibility that he could make it better, shouldn't he take it? There was no other option for him. He had no contacts, no pulls, not in this time. He knew nothing of the land, and knew nothing of the way of life. He could rush in by himself into the unknown, but he would simply stutter around in the darkness. He needed a guiding light. Being a witcher, to be trained in the way of the Wolf, knowing everything about this world and the type of people in it, that could prove the best option to find and rescue hermione.

"Have you made up your minds?", Vesemir asked. Harry looked up at him, his only hope for survival in this feral land.

"How many of you. . . wish to walk the Path of the Wolf?", he asked.

One by one, all the recruits raised their hands. Harry held his up firmly. there was no backing down, not now. This had to be his decision.

"I do not."

Harry turned around, looking for the voice that called out, as did a number of recruits. One child had not raised her hand. She was looking down at the floor, tears in her eyes, her hands gripped together.  
'Lana?', Harry thought. he focused his eyes on Moire. her hand was raised, just like all others', but the statement from her sister must have dealt a heavy blow to her psyche. Her head had dropped, and while her face conveyed no expression, Harry could feel that she was trying hard to hold back tears. 'So this must be what they were arguing about.', he thought. Lana didn't want to be a witcher. But her sister most certainly did. Lana had tried to persuade Moire to leave with her, and Moire had tried her best to convince Lana to stay.

Vesemir smiled sadly at Lana. She looked up expectantly at Moire. Moire made no change to her stance.

"Moire, please, let's go.", she pleaded. "There's nothing for us here. Please, we can go back to the village. It must be rebuilt by now. We can live like we did before. . . We can be happy again."

"No.", that was all Moire said. She closed her eyes, but held her hand firmly up in the air. There was no hesitation there. She had rejected the wish of her younger sister, splitting them apart, but there was no emotion in her face. Despite the gesture being cold-blooded, Harry had to respect her passion. She wanted to be a witcher so much that she was willing to forsake her only bond remaining.

"Then I'll stay.", lana said. her voice cracked, and every word was filled with sadness. "I'll. . .I'll be a witcher if I have to."

"I'm afraid not, girl.", Vesemir said. Lana stared at Vesemir with her big, pleading eyes. He didn't budge an inch. "You showed hesitation when asked if you wanyed to walk the Path. If we let you be a witcher after this, you will only come to regret it in the future. Any person who regrets his decisions can never be good at what he does. You can never be a good witcher, if deep down, you hate the idea of being one."

"But, but,", Lana began, and Vesemir held up a hand. It was then that Harry realized just how much power he held.  
"There is no point in discussing it further. My decision is made. My word is final. You can not be a witcher. You may not undergo the Trials. We will escort you to a nearby village, where you can choose to live your life as you see fit. But you must never try to come back into the School of the Wolf. Whatever loosed ends you have left here, tie them up now. You leave tomorrow."

Harry watched as Lana was escorted out by a rookie witcher. She was still crying, she didn't seem able to stop the tears, and for a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw Moire open her mouth, maybe to call out to her sister, maybe to join her in her decision. But whatever the case, she refrained from speaking, choosing instead to shut her eyes tight. Harry saw her fists clench up, and he could imagine how she felt. Still, her choice was her choice.

"Now, then,", Vesemir began. "I assume there are no more of you who has had a change of heart? Good. I will explain each of the trials to you."

Harry listened harder, as Vesemir began to explain each trial in detail.  
"The first trial, is the Trial of the Grasses. You will be fed special alchemical herbs and potions that mutate your nervous system. Some of you may be crippled, some of you may be fully paralyzed for life. But those who do survive, you will be a lot faster than you ever were before. Your body will be able to react to even the slightest of movements, a cat blinking, a leaf falling, a wind blowing. Your reflexes will improve tremendously, so much so that you can parry blows from three or even four enemies at a time."

Harry thought about that. That seemed pretty useful and way badass. . . Althought the entire paralysis thing posed a little problem.

"Assuming you survive, the next trial is that of The Dreams. Here, we will mutate your eyes, your bones, and various other aspects of your body to provide you with physical advantages over a regular man. You will see everything, even in darkest night. You will hear everything, even a butterfly's flap. You will heal faster than regular men, your body will be able to withstand heavy blows from fists and from claws."

'Darkvision, hmm?', Harry thought. 'Extra endurance, and increased healing. Useful.'

"And the final trial, is that of a Choice. This will be the toughest aspect of your training. There may come times when you are left to fend for your self in the forests and the woods. You must make your body receptive to the various mosses and herbs and mushrooms that are found in the wilderness. This is what makes up a witcher's main 'diet'. It is also here that you will transform your body into that of a witcher. You will be trained, restlessly, day and night until you achieve perfection. The training will be grueling, I assure you. . . but this is what it means, to be a witcher. This is what it means to be one of us. This . . . is what it means to be a Wolf."

Harry thought about Vesemir's explanations. When he had first arrived, Vesemir had told him that since he already had magic, he may not have to undergo some mutations. He wondered whether that was true, and what it meant for him if it was.

"Know that should you choose to forsake the last trial,", Vesemir continued, "You will be killed."

A sudden hush fell over the entire hall. It was then that Harry grasped the true seriousness of the situation, and why Vesemir was sounding like he was trying to scare recruits off. If anybody wanted to quit, they had to do so, right now. There was no other exits, save for death. Once they were even remotely mutated, they were a liability. If anyone could catch hold of these rookies and subjected them to dissections and experiments, then the results could be devastating to witchery. Therefore, the only safeguard was to kill them should they decide to leave, after undertaking even one trial.

"Think carefully.", Vesemir advised. "Tomorrow, we leave for Kaer Morhen."

As everybody dispersed, Harry turned around to seek out Toril and Ridan, but suddenly felt his shoulder gripped by an iron arm. He turned around to see the smiling face of Vesemir.  
"How are you liking your time here, Harry?", he asked. "Making new comrades?"

"Yes, sir.", Harry replied. He didn't really know what else to say. It was like being with Dumbledore in his first year.

"Did you see the girl who left?", vesemir asked.

"Yes.", Harry replied.

"Did you know her?"

"I suppose."

Vesemir sighed. "It pains me to see families torn apart. The girl's sister decided to stay."

'Moire.', Harry thought.

"But I had no choice.", Vesemir contiued. "Were she to be a witcher, she would come to regret it someday, and that. . . is not something we want. But, enought of that. I feel that you may be wondering what will be done differently for you, yes?"

Harry nodded in confirmation.

"You see, Harry, infertility comes from the trial of the Dreams. In it, like I said, we mutate different parts of your body, to make you as efficient as possible to kill mosters, hence the dark vision. However, this also grants regular mortals some amount of magic, required to be a witcher. Now, when we introduce the mutagens to your body, they seem to have an. . . adverse effect on it. The body is now capable of using basic magical skills, but this in turn makes you infertile. The druids and I believe this is due to us mutating the bone marrow to give you magic."

Harry nodded. That was fairly easy enough to understand.

"Now, regular humans have no magic potential in their body. Even if both a child's parents were wizards, chances are extremely slim that the child itself could be a mage. Mages are extremely rare now, I do not know what the situation is when you come from. However, a mage is born with tremendous magic potential, and this is what determines a mage's power. A mage could be born to even a normal couple, there are no restrictions. Now you,. . . you are the first human I have seen that has magic greather than a regular human, yet lesser than a powerful mage. It is my deduction that you, do not need to be succumbed to the entire Trial Of Dreams. By not introducing the mutagens that produce magic in the body, we may, in fact, be able to bypass the entire infertility issue. If we could, then this could mean the revival of witchery."

"So you aren't one hundred percent sure?"

"Caught on, did you?. No, Harry, I am not. The chances are slim, but it is better than none. However, understand that you still run the risks from the other trials."

"What? So I could survive the Dream trial, but die from the Choice?", Harry asked, disbelieving. And here he thought he had a break.

"Yes. Every year, we see recruits try to go through each of the trials, all hopeful of becoming a witcher. Many do not survive, succumbing to liver or heart failure and sometimes madness, many being left with excessively aggressive tentdencies to kill others, becoming the very essence of being that we are sworn to eradicate."

"Monsters.", guessed harry.

"Exactly."  
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Harry walked up to the terrace of the castle. It was now night time, and while the recruits were all buzzing with excitement, nervousness, and fear, time had flown by so quickly that it was already curfew. He had tossed and turned in his bed for a good hour before he decided to get some fresh air.

He stood with his hands against the low wall of teh roof, gazing out at the beautiful night sky. The stars were out, twinklin their way though the clouds, as the moon gave a silvery glow to everything. Harry had been so dissolved in the beauty of nature, that he didn't see Moire walk up next to him.

He was extremely surprised to find her here, in the middle of the night. She had been so silent, so much that it felt like she had just materialized out of thin air. Harry looked at Moire. She looked ever more pretty in the moonlight. Harry noticed that she always held herself with a certain grace, and was always lithe and stealthy. . . like a jaguar.

They, or rather, he stood in awkward silence for a few moments, until Harry tried to break the ice. "So, what brings you here?"

Moire stood silent, her hair flowing int he wind, eyes looking downward.

"You know, you can drop the 'lone wolf' thing. I mean I understand how you feel, but. . ."

"No."

"What?"

"No, you don't."

Harry realized that she was actually talking to him, and decided to let the conversation flow on it's own.

"Today, I watched as my sister was kicked out. I don't know if I'll ever see her again, and now, maybe by tomorrow, I'll be dead."

Harry stood in silence. Sometimes, he knew, it was best not to offer any advice, but just to listen.

"Since last year, life has never been easy for me. People everywhere look at me, and when they do, do you know what they see. . .? sex."

'Wow, this is getting real.', Harry thought.

"That's all anyone ever sees in me. Everywhere I went, every village I tried, every innkeeper, every soldier, every. . . beggar wanted a piece of me. I have no family, no friends, no anything. All I had was my sister, and now she's gone too."

"That's not true.", Harry said. "Your family may still be alive, you know, if the fire wasn't too big or. . ."

Moire stood silent, and it looked like she was deep in thought. Harry had seen that expression enough times on Hermione and Ron's face to know that she had a secret. "What happened?", he asked.

Moire looked like she was about to answer him, but she seemed to change her mind at the last minute. "Nothing."

Harry was very curious to find out her secret, and he was desparately ready to keep pressing her on, but ultimately, he decided against it. "Fine.", he said.

Moire looked thankful, and she gave a slight smile at Harry. His stomach suddenly nested butterflies, but he was trying really hard not to blush. "Moire, I know you don't really consider me or Toril or Ridan friends, but. . . just know, we are about to become comrades, and we are always there for you."

Moire smiled. "Thank you. . . Harry."

Harry smiled back. 'Assuming we survive, that is.', but he decided not to say it out loud.

"Hey,", he began,

"Hm?"

"Do you know what this Gair Moreen is?"

"Kaer Mohren.", Moire corrected. "I've heard the old times, witchers were thought to be trained there, but fanatics who considered witchers an abomination attacked the keep and killed most of the teachers. It was a true massacre. Wizards were involved, and it the only ones who survived, survived because they weren't there."

Harry took all that in. So in essence, they were going to visit a monument, a tribute, to teh men who were massacred there. Despite everything, Harry felt that he was one step closer to achieving his true Path. Step one was becoming a witcher. Step two, finding Hermione, and step three, returning home.

- - -T- - -H- - -E- - }|{- - -W- - -|- - -T- - -C- - -H- - -E- - -R-

To Be Continued in Chapter 3 - Trial and Error

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	4. Chapter 3 : Trial & Error - Part I

The girl ran. She ran as fast as she could, as hard as she could. Her feet hurt from the chase. It hurt so very much. But she could not stop. Not now. It didn't matter how much her feet bled, how much the soles of her feet tore as she stepped over thorns and pebbles and brambles. She saw a great tree up ahead, and quick as lightning, she ran up to the trunk, hiding herself behind it.

She panted heavily, clutching her stolen robe close to her chest. The brisk chill of the night pricked her naked legs here and there. With no apparel underneath, icy needles pierced the exposed skin from under her robes. But she did not feel cold. She had been running so long, that her entire body was burning up inside. She peeked out from the side of the trunk, between deep breaths. She quickly reeled back as the shrubbery parted to reveal two men.

They were talking in loud voices, not even trying to conceal their presence. She supposed that it didn't matter to them. If she kept running, she wouldn't get very far. These men were much bigger and much more energetic than her, and she had no more stamina to keep running. She had to find a place to hide, quickly. She could not get caught by these, by these. . . beasts. She could not suffer the same fate as all those other girls. She could not, would not, allow herself to be used like that, to be passed around like a toy. With careful steps, she tried to move away. As though fate felt particularly cruel, a branch cracked under her feet. She paused in terror, as the two men slowly turned their heads in her direction. Panic gripped her heart, and through pure instinct, she ran.

She had not gotten maybe a few metres ahead, when the hem of her robes caught on a root. She tripped, and fell face first into the dirt floor of the forest. With effort, she picked herself up of the floor, but it was already too late. They had gained on her. She cowered in fear as the two men towered over her. "Caught you at last, didn't we, bitch?", one of them snarled. She shook with fear at the lust in his voice. "Now, now, Jorl,", the other one reasoned, though a sinister smile decorated his face as well, "We have our orders. Got to bring her back, we do.". "Ah, to hell with the orders.", Jorl growled. "It's been too long since I've had some fresh bitch. We'll just say the forest got her. All right with you, Girn?". Girn sighed, as the girl tried to run away again. He caught her by the collar of her robes and pulled her towards him. She was young, probably a virgin, he could tell.

"Fine.", Girn whispered. "But I want her first.". "Ahh, you always get the good ones. Fine, I'll hold her down.", saying so, Jorl grabbed the girl by her shoulders, and with some effort, pulled the struggling creature to the ground. He positioned himself behind the girl, holding her hands in place, as Girn unbuckled his trousers. Jorl watched as Girn moved closer, and heard a soft, whistling sound. Girn moved closer, but there was something very wrong. Suddenly, his face showed no expression. Girn fell to his knees and then to the ground, and Jor saw an arrow sticking out of his neck. Jor growled. He went for his sword. The girl watched as though by magic, three arrows appeared on Jor's face, neck, and chest. He fell to the ground, motionless, hand still clutched on the sword hilt. From the corner of his eyes, as his vision blurred, and his breath faltered, he saw two figures appear from the forest, and his last words were, "Elves."

The W|TCHER }|{ The Emerald Dragon - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Chapter 3 : Trial & Error Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Harry ate his breakfast in silence, along with Toril, Ridan, and Moire. The day was grey. Rain clouds gave everything a bleak, drab appearance, reflecting the mood of most recruits. Even the ones who were excited when Vesemir announced the Trials yesterday, were sombre and grim today. It seemed everyone understood the risk that they ran, by accepting to go through with the Trials. As feelings grew grim, rumors started to flood throughoutt the School. The witchers were rarely seen these days, as the preparations for the Trials went underway. Vesemir himself was seen leaving the School, possibly to converse with the Druids, Harry suspected.

But as it was, he had been hearing various stories of how painful and violent the mutations would be. Although it was fairly obvious that none of them had even heard of the Trials until yesterday, all of them were fairly excellent at making up tall tales. Over twenty-four hours since the announcement, Harry had heard various stories, all pertaining to how one wrong mutation could turn you into a nekker, how once a female rookie was mutated into a bruxa, and even how one man became half-dragon after being exposed to all three trials at once. It was impossible, Harry knew, but for some reason, the stories had spread like wildfire.

Harry could care less about any of these tall tales. As far as he was concerned, every second that he wasted was every second Hermione had to suffer. He wanted to get through these trials as quickly as time allwed, and assuming that he wouldn't end up as a puddle of drool on the floor to be cleaned up, start his search for her, and hope that she had the time turner. Unfortunately, this was one variable that Harry had never considered in his entire plan until yesterday. Up until then, his entire strategy was: become a witcher, find Hermione, and haul their asses out of this timeline. While he was busy formulating heroic methods to obliterate Hermione's captors, a random thought had popped all his dream bubbles. 'How do I get back without the time- turner?'.

That pretty much put a full stop to whatever ideas he had worked up. There was no loophole around it. They had no way to go back to their time without that time turner, and unless Harry was mistaken, he was fairly sure that no smart ass wizard had invented a time travelling device in this timeline. Realizing that there was no point in sulking, he decided to move forward in the assumption that wherever Hermione was, she would have the time- turner. And while he was busy including this detail into his fantasies, another thought popped into his mind. 'If Hermione still has the time turner. . . then would she still be here?'.

And again, Harry fell into a depression as he considered those variant possibilities. Hermione was the smartest, most logical witch in their school. What was stopping her from turning the time turner a few turns per. . . time, until she returned to their timeline? Of course, they were friends, but, were they THAT good friends, that Hermione would decide to wait until she met with Harry to try going back to the future? Or would she already have left him behind? As he began sulking again, he remembered when they were in the Hospital wing in Hogwarts, and Hermione mentioned that the time turner could not go into the future. For a fleeting millisecond, Harry was actually a bit happy. At least Hermione couldn't leave without him. He was safe on that account, anyway. But his entire fantasies were crushed the next second when he realized what this meant.

They could never go back. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to, they could never, ever, return to their timeline. If the time turner couldn't take them to the future, then they were very much stuck in this place. 'Bloody. . . fucking. . . perfect.', Harry thought harshly, cursing fate to hell. So much for that brilliant idea.

So now, Harry had no way to get back to his time. But he had decided that that would not prevent him from finding Hermione. Maybe with the help of Vesemir and Geralt, they could perhaps figure out some way to get themselves back to their time. But until that time, he had no choice but to believe in fate. He would travel to Kaer Mohren. He would become a witcher. He would find Hermione.

As the witchers of the School of the Wolf guided the young recruits into the Kaer Mohren laboratory, Harry thought they had finally stepped out of the cold. Their journey here had been very tiring, as they had to move through secret paths throughout the forests. Two witchers leading a group of children through the city. . . that could have raised some rumors. But this time Harry enjoyed his walk through the thick forest, partly because, this time, he had boots on to cover his feet.

The woods were mostly quiet, with the occasional rabbit or the occasional bird, observing the group as they moved, considering the possibilities of a threat. However, the journey was still long, and the hardest part was the climb. Kaer Mohren used to be a well known castle throughout the land, as the previous School Of The Wolf. It was located deep within The Blue Mountains in Kaedwen, a large country in the Continent. As they got closer to the mountains, the temperatures started to get lower. Harry had never really been one for the cold, but it wasn't like there was any huge amounts of snow there. Perhaps it was because it was summer time now, but the paths were still very windy, and Harry could feel the cold wind pass over his skin as he walked with the others.

Kaer Mohren itself was in ruins, just like Harry had heard, and it stood a drab, dark sight amidst the greying sky and the rocky terralin. He supposed it was fitting, considering how it was also a sombre reminder of the 'witcher hunt' that had taken place there. He still didn't know the full details of the massacre, but he didn't really want to bring it up with any of the witchers. Harry had also noticed a river running beside the keep, which he figured to be the Gwenllech, the White river.

As they neared the castle, Harry saw that the castle obviously had seen better, much better days. The buildings were cracked, and moss and shrubbery slowly crept up the keep, nature trying to pull the structure back into the rock. There was also a moat constructed around the castle, which had now run out. As they passed the arched entrance gate, Harry looked down into the mini chasm, and thought that he saw bones. With a slight chill, not from the wind, Harry realized that they were exactly just that. Bones.

Human skeletons, eroded and yellowed with time. They grinned at the recruits as they walked by, and Harry felt that they could see them. He felt that they were watching him, as though speaking a silent warning. 'Don't try anything funny, now.'. Toril and Ridan had explained that the bones were kept there in memory of the massacre that had taken place, and Harry thought that it was also a very good way to keep out treasure hunters or fanatics.

The castle was no different inside, as the warmth Harry was hoping for was unfortuntely absent from the keep. The hallways had torch brackets scattered here and there, assuming the walls still stood, of course, and the recruits had to take particular care not to step foot in the rubble. Mouses squeaked as the group's footsteps echoed against the stone walls of the keep, and the hallways looked like they had seen much more festive days. A long, cold wind blew through the spacious Main Hall as they were herded in by the witchers, right in front of Vesemir.

He appeared dead serious and uncharacteristically grim, much unlike Harry had ever seen him before. The two witchers accompanying them moved to the front of the hall, and proceeded to stand behind Vesemir. Vesemir surveyed the expressions of the group one time before he began speaking.

"Welcome, all of you, to Kaer Mohren.". Some of the recruits nodded in acceptance, others nodded in nervousness, and some stood unblinking. "When spoken in the Elder Speech, Kaer Mohren literally means, Old Sea Keep."

"This place,", Vesemir continued, "now seems as dark and drab as the dungeons of Nilfgaard. However, it was not always so. There was a time when Kaer Mohren achieved glory well beyond what was thought of a witcher's School. We were known throughout the land, respected. . . feared.". The room fell silent as they listened to Vesemir recall the glory days of Kaer Mohren.

"All of you, when you still had a family, may have heard of the tragedy of Kaer Mohren. Perhaps it may have been from your parents, trying to get a naughty child to behave. Maybe it was spoken outside, at a camp, with your friends. I do not know what variations of the tale you have heard of. But this. . . is the truth.". Harry listened as Vesemir recounted the tragedy of Kaer Mohren. The faces of the two witchers became sombre, from being serious, and they behaved as they would at a funeral. Harry could feel the sadness in Vesemir's voice as his memories of the incident was reignited.

"It was almost autumn. My old students. . . My comrades, they were all here, a place of comfort for those who grow tired from their journey on the Path. We heard the mob before we saw them. They yelled curses at us, called us monsters, vermin, beasts, necromancers. And like a traditional mob, they had pitchforks, torches, clubs and swords, spears and shields. But we were not frightened. We were not panicked. We were witchers. We didn't need to fight them. And even if push came to shove, we could defeat them. We were confident in our abilities. But there was one aspect we had not considered. One variable, that we had not foreseen. One anomaly, that we had not expected."

Harry wondered what that could be, when Vesemir answered his thoughts. "Mages. Those cursed fiends attacked us without warning or provocation. I do not know why. Perhaps they thought we threatened their existence in some way. Perhaps they were simply prejudiced. What I do know, is that we would never have fallen unless it were for them. Their magic weakened our defenses, tore our castle apart. They shot my colleagues down like dogs from a distance. While the witchers fought those angry madmen in the front, the mages killed them from their safe perch at the back of the horde. They had no consideration to their 'allies', or their enemies. All they wanted was to finish us, once and for all. By the time we reached them, they had fled, and the castle was overrun by the people. Without the help of the mages, they would never have beaten us. Only very few witchers survived the ordeal, and only because most of them were away on their Paths."

Vesemer stood silent for a few seconds, as the impact of his words finally reached the recruits' heads. Harry felt that a violin background would be apt for this situaution, but immediately banished any such thoughts from his mind. Vesemir began speaking again, catching everyone's attention. "But that is all in the past. As brutal and as scarring as that massacre was, it taught me some things, the major of whom are One: You can never fully trust anyone, but yourself. Two: You can never truly believe in anyone, but yourself. No matter how trustworthy you think a man is, always have a plan on the assumption that he is a not. Even the most iron willed men can be controlled with the right leverage. You are to be witchers. You do not believe in kings. . . politics. . . religion. To do so is your choice, it is not mandatory, however, it is suggested. Always believe in YOUR ideals, never in anyone else's. You shape your Path, it is not chosen for you. If what you do stand by your codes, then you will never feel doubt in yourself."

Harry listened to Vesemir give his speech, and thought that he was an excellent speaker. Deep down, even as young as he was, he agreed with whatever Vesemir was saying. He understood it. To a certain extent, he could relate to it. His experience as the supposed 'Heir of Slytherin' had proven that the beliefs of people were fickle. Back then, only Hermione and Ron had been his rock. Even Gryffindor looked at him with suspicion. And after the revelation about Pettigrew this year, he was not so big on the 'trust everybody and sunflowers will pop out of the ground' ideal.

"Today, you undertake the Trials of witchery.", Vesemir continued. "I look at your faces, and I do not see 'canditates with potential.'. I see cubs. Cubs that one day, will grow to become the Wolves of the witchers. You may feel scared. You may feel nervous. This does not mean that you are a coward. It does not mean that you are weak hearted. It means that you are wise. The fact that you chose not to run away, that you chose to be one of us, shows bravery, not recklessness. After today, the Pack of the Wolves grows larger. We grow fiercer."

Harry half expected Vesemir to shout "Huzzah!" at the end of the speech. It was a very inspiring speech, one that almost all recruits took to heart. He also fully expected Ridan to cheer "Tally Ho!". He was denied on both accounts, though he saw that Ridan was trying very hard to control himself. But Harry knew, like some of the more pragmatic others, that the real test began now.

"Then follow me.", Vesemir ordered. "We will move to the dungeons. It is time for the Trials to commence."

The dungeons of Kaer Mohren could be described in one word: dark. Harry could see nothing in front of him, literally, as he tried not to trip through the narrow dungeon corridor. His eyes could make out extremely faint outlines of the walls, and he could hear the soft pitter patter of bare feet against the floor. The witchers were their guiding light through this darkness, as their uncanny eyesight gave them an edge over the regular humans.

Harry believed that the darkness served dual purposes. For one thing, it made sure that no recruit could know the actual way to the dungeon. Harry felt that they had rounded a corner many times, and for a brief moment, he had wondered whether they were going around in circles. He supposed that with the mages being called honorless bastards in this time, the precaution was understandable. For the second reason, after the Trial of the Dreams had taken place, the darkness could prove a testing ground for the new witcher's abilities. Aside from their footsteps, breathing, and occasional girly squeal, the dungeon was eerily quiet. Harry figured that once the Trial of the Dreams were complete, a walk through this place would be more than enough time for his eyes to adjust to his new abilities, and his ears to put that superhuman hearing to the test. This was all based on the assumption that he actually made it past the trials put forth.

After what felt like ten or so minutes, they had reached the Kaer Mohren laboratory. Harry could see a faint orange glow from behind a closed door, and he wondered what hideous fate awaited them. As one witcher pushed the creaking door open, the other guided the recruits into the room from the back. It was much unlike the potion lab back at Hogwarts. Various herbs and shrubs lined the shelves, kept in glass jars and cases. Harry could identify a few of them from his memory. Bayonella, Aloe, Cat's Iris, Belladonna. . . It seemed Snape's classes wasn't entirely lost on him. But this lab was much bigger than their classroom. It was maybe quadruple its size in width and twice in length. And that was from a wild guess in the darkly lit room, the only sources of light being a few torches here and there. Harry noticed, with a slight chill, that it wasn't just herbs that were put on display.

There were various different kinds of body parts up on display. Hearts, livers, kidneys, intestines. . . all of which were put in various solutions and stored for lab uses. Harry couldn't tell whether they were human body parts or monster, and he certainly didn't want to know. There were also some heads on display, like trophies. One was pudgy faced, with medium sized beady black eyes, blueish skin, a reddish bald head, and rows of tiny sharp teeth, like miniature daggers. Maybe it was the firelight casting shadows, but it very much looked like the face was grinning toothily at him. He slowly turned his head to the opposite side- he didn't want to look like a scaredy cat in front of the others- and came eye-to-eye with a human skeleton head. Harry gulped and clenched his fists. He had thought that after being in the chamber, and facing dementors, maybe things like this wouldn't surprise him anymore. He was wrong.

There were also two rows of what appeared to be beds in the room. In the dim light, Harry counted twenty, maybe twenty five, placed along the wide walls of the room, with a fair distance put between them. Each bed had restraining belts clasped onto them, much like in asylums. These belts seemed to be made of leather, and instantly he knew exactly what their use were.  
"Move.", said a witcher, appearing suddenly from behind Harry. Harry obliged, and the witcher guided him to a bed along the far corner, where he had a view of all the other recruits. Exactly opposite him stood a tall, well-built boy who appeared rather calm for someone who was probably about to die. His calmness was unnerving rather than inspiring, so Harry looked away. The sight wasn't exactly a confidence boost here, either.

Unlike the calm boy Harry saw next to him, most other recruits were trying hard not to faint. Harry saw Toril, maybe four beds to his front and to the right, looking as if he was trying not to have a heart attck. He was twisting his thumbs around each other, his eyes shifting quickly from one person to another, never able to stay still. He was breathing heavily, and it looked like he was trying not to hyperventilate and faint. Maybe three more beds ahead. Ridan looked exactly like Toril. But if Toril was hyperventilating from nervousness and fear, Ridan was doing so from sheer excitement. Ridan caught Harry's stare and gave a faint smile, which, Harry thought, was one hundred percent genuine. He really was happy to be here. It was his dream, after all. Two more beds ahead, where the girls were being arranged, stood Moire. For what Harry thought was the first time, Moire looked scared. She wasn't as nervous as Toril, but Harry could see from her face that she wasn't calm at all.

"Get on.", said a familiar voice. Harry turned back to see Geralt standing before him.

"What?", Harry asked, shocked. "When did you. . ."

"The way you came isn't the only way in."

Harry looked around. "Whoa.". There were a lot of witchers here. At least ten or eleven of them, including Geralt and Vesemir. At a week in the school, he had never seen even five witchers at one time. The closest he had come to was when he first arrived, when including Geralt, he saw four. As he looked at the experts, he could see Sofer. He was on the other side of the room, helping a boy onto the bed. Even from this distance, and even in this light, Harry could feel his eyes on him.

"You have to get on the bed, Harry.", Geralt repeated, and Harry brought his attention back to him. He obeyed, raising hismself upon the raised platform of the bed. He rested his head on the hard wood headrest, and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He watched as Geralt clasped the restraints into their respective buckles, restricting Harry's movement. He could still move his head, but his arms and legs were bound to the bed.

"Is this really important?", asked Harry. He didn't like being forced still. There was something in him that objected to restricted movement.

"Yes.", Geralt answered. Harry sighed, exasperated. Geralt never gave explanations or reasons. Only exactly what he asked for.

"Can I know why?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Why?"

"The first Trial you will be exposed to is that of the Grasses.", Geralt explained. "I think Vesemir already told you, but this Trial mutates your nerves. You know that your nerves control all your actions, right?"

Harry nodded yes. It was fairly obvious.

"Not all mutations go right. There's only a one in five chance of your survival, with the desired effect. There's one in five chance that you get crippled. A one in five chance that you become fully paraplegic. A one in five chance that it affects your brain, your ability to make decisions, your ability to think like a man. And finally, there's a one in five chance that it mutates you with the wanted effect, but affects your brain."

"Oh.". Harry realized what that meant. So that was what they meant when they said, turn into monsters. "So in a way, it's like rabies?"

"Yes.", Geralt answered, while making sure that the restraints were firm and tight. "There may be more and more side effects or scenarios we don't know about. But this is usually the way things go down."

"Is that why there are so many witchers here?", Harry asked.

Geralt smiled and nodded. "You catch on quick. Yes, that is why the witchers are in full force. If one of you becomes. . . well, rabid, then it is our duty as witchers to hack your head off."

"Thank you for your confidence inspiring words."

Geralt chuckled. "Stay here.", he said, and he walked away.

Harry looked at the ceiling. It was stone too, although it had a few cracks running across them. He saw a moth fly across his sight. He squinted at it, keeping it within it's view. It flew around in the dim light, Harry watched it fly for a few seconds, until it stopped. It didn't fly. It looked like it was floating in the air. It flapped its wings, but it didn't seem to be getting anywhere soon. Harry was wondering what the moth's problem was, when he saw it. A giant spider caught the moth in its grip, and Harry realized that it had been caught in a clever web. The spider slowly began its feast, and Harry looked away. He had never been one for omens, but after Divination lessons and all 'the Grim' talk from Professor Trelawney, he was getting a bit superstitious. His dream the day before. . . it had been so real. What could it mean? The moth getting caught by the spider in its web. Did it mean that he was caught in a trap? Was he being played? What was the secret?  
'Or maybe the moth was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the spider just got lucky.', the rational part of his mind said.

"Harry.", a gravelly voice brought him back to reality. Geralt stood over him, and Harry had to admit, his already scarred face, white hair, yellow eyes, coupled with the shadows cast by the light made him a rather intimidating figure indeed. It didn't really help that he was towering over Harry in his current state.

"Open your mouth.", Geralt said, holding a small vial full of grass-green liquid.

Harry took a deep breath. He understood what he was getting into. There was no backing down now. Not here. Not unless he wanted to be killed instantaneously by Geralt. "Geralt?"  
"Hmm?"  
"If I don't make it, would you find Hermione for me?"  
"No."  
"Yeah, that's what I thought too. Can't blame you there. . . Oh and one more thing."  
"What?"  
"If I become anything less than a witcher. . . please don't let me suffer."  
". . . Got it."

Harry opened his mouth, and closed his eyes. Geralt uncorked the bottle, and poured the potion into Harry's mouth. Harry felt the heavy, gooey fluid move down through his throat. It made it cold inside him. But he didn't feel any pain. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Geralt was still standing before him.

"Is. . . Is that it?", Harry asked.

Geralt chuckled. "Give it a few minutes."

Harry felt a slow, warm sensation in his lower gut. It was pleasant. . . at first. It started getting warmer, and Harry exhaled quickly, trying to cool himself down. Harry tried to keep it in, but he couldn't. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. It was like when his scar hurt the first year, when he fought Quirell. Only this was a hundred times more searing.

"Or a few seconds,", Harry heard Geralt say, as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Harry opened his eyes groggily. His vision was blurred. He felt feverish, and he was sweating hard. He didn't feel feverish anymore. For a moment, he thought, 'This is it.'. But just as quickly, the pain returned, but not just in his stomach. This time, it coursed through his entire body, and it felt as though the Basilisk had stung him again, but this time, with all its teeth. He yearned for Fawkes right now, and for a moment, he thought he saw a phoenix flying around the room. Right then, the pain became too intense again, and he blacked out.

Harry woke up again to the sounds of commotion. Through foggy eyes, he saw the calm boy who stood next to him befor the Trials. But there was something different about him. His hands had contorted, he was drooling beyond belief, and his eyes, it looked like he had been kissed by a Dementor. But this boy moved like a monster. He. . . It tried to bite a bald headed witcher, who immediately gave his armored hand to the boy. The thing bit the steel like it was it's chew toy, and while he was distracted, Geralt moved from behind. Harry watched as a gleaming sword cut through the air with scary expertise, slicing the monster's head clean off it's shoulders. Blood sprouted everywhere, and Harry saw Geralt's blade had been splattered with red streaks. As the dead thing was being carried out, Harry saw Geralt wipe his blade, and lost consciousness one more time.

Harry woke up again. But this time, he felt no pain. He was still restrained to the bed, and he strained to move his head.

"You're awake.", a familiar voice said. Harry turned his head to see Geralt. His face was not the cold, ruthless face Harry had seen when he decapitated that boy. Harry looked at the floor. There were no blood stains upon it. He looked at the other beds. He couldn't make out all their faces, but out of the sixteen occupied beds, five were empty.

"Five died?", he asked. He wondered whether any of his friends were with those that did.

"Yeah.", Geralt answered. "Five turned into monsters. We had to put them down."

Harry relaxed. He had seen what they became. He agreed with Geralt. But he was thankful that he wasn't one of them.

"I don't feel any pain anymore.", Harry said weakly. It caused him some strain to talk, and his voice came out in whispers.

"Yeah. Looks like you passed the first Trial.", Geralt said. "Not bad, Potter."

Harry smiled faintly. "So what's next?"

"Well, it's been almost three days since the first Trial. Most of the recruits are still blacked out. You got up fast. Maybe because of your magic."

"Yeah.", Harry sighed.

"Here.", Geralt showed another potion to Harry, but this one was bright orange.

"Are you starting the next trial already?", Harry asked. His entire body felt a little numb. He could still move whatever parts of his body he wanted to, but it cost a great deal of effort and stamina.

"If we start the next one so soon, your death is guaranteed.", Geralt replied.

"Joy."

Geralt smiled. "Your muscles are weak. Your body's nervous system has improved, but your body's not completely accepted the improvement. So, you drink this." He jiggled the potion in his hand. "This builds up your muscles, and gets rid of the numbness you feel right now. Then it acts through your body to make sure that the organs and muscles and bones are 'in sync' with your new reflexes. After all, your body has to respond fast enough to the commands of your brain."

With a sigh, Harry opened his mouth and let the potion be poured into it. It tasted extremely sour, and Harry had to force it down his gullet.

Geralt laughed at the expression on Harry's face. "Come on, Potter, it's time to grow a pair. We haven't even begun yet."

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To Be Continued: in Chapter 3 - Trial and Error - Part II

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


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